A Spy in the House of Chuck
by SmatterChoo
Summary: Sarah prides herself on being the best—Graham's Enforcer, the Ice Queen, and agent extraordinaire. But when she becomes her own worst enemy, she's forced to confront her deepest weakness . . . or risk losing Chuck forever.
1. Sarah vs the Nemisister

Sarah prides herself on being the best—Graham's Enforcer, the Ice Queen, and agent extraordinaire. But when she becomes her own worst enemy, she's forced to confront her deepest weakness . . . or risk losing Chuck forever.

This starts out as Canon, but will become more and more A/U as we go.

Disclaimer: We don't own Chuck…**  
**

* * *

**Chapter 1: Sarah vs the Nemisister  
**

Sarah Walker navigated the manicured streets of Burbank in her Porsche on autopilot, her jaw clenched and her brain on fire.

Everything hurt. Her jaw. Her sense of purpose. And most of all, her heart.

The pain in her jaw made sense. She clenched her jaw when she was nervous or pissed off, had done it since she was a child. It was one of the few habits the Farm had been unable to break. As for her sense of purpose, that was logical too. Chuck was her asset, hers to protect. And Bryce had made off with him right under her nose. Sarah had given her ex-partner the damn elevator code, for God's sake. She'd helped a fugitive escape, to save Chuck's life. She was Graham's enforcer, and she'd failed.

Or . . . not, considering Chuck was still alive, if not fully conscious. She glanced at him, slumped against the car door, and shuddered with relief. Only Bryce's twisted sense of justice—or whatever play he was running—had saved her asset's life.

How could Chuck have gotten so close to him? Hadn't he realized what Bryce was capable of?

The answer, obviously, was no. Chuck might have the world's most sought-after super-computer in his head, but he was an IT nerd who worked at the freaking Buy More. The closest he'd ever gotten to shooting someone was playing those lame-ass video games with the walking social disaster he called a best friend. He was a liability in a fight and he could have been killed.

Sarah should have told him what Bryce could do. Should have warned him. Instead she'd sent him into the holding room like a lamb to slaughter, and listened helplessly as he and Bryce exchanged words in some unfamiliar foreign language before Bryce lured Chuck in close enough to hold a syringe to his throat.

She hadn't known Chuck could speak a second language. No one had put that piece of intelligence in his dossier. Maybe it was some kind of unanticipated Intersect side effect. She'd have to tell the Director.

The truth of the matter was, Sarah hadn't wanted to talk to Chuck long enough to tell him how to handle himself in that little room, with the lethal rogue agent whose only real rival was Sarah herself. She hadn't wanted to look at him, much less have an extended conversation.

This was all her fault.

She shouldn't have kissed him, never mind that they both thought they were going to die. What had she been thinking? Assets were off-limits, especially the ones that flaunted their hearts on their sleeves like a diamond cufflink at a kleptomaniacs' convention.

Sarah had been raised to hide her feelings, to show others what they wanted or needed to see. Emotions were a liability, and so she'd shoved hers down so deep, excavating them had become more trouble than it was worth. She did her job and she did it well. What she'd had with Bryce hadn't interfered with that. They both knew the deal. What they'd had worked for them. Until it didn't, because Bryce went rogue. And then Casey had shot him.

Sarah had chalked his death up to the cost of doing business. She and Bryce had used each other. They'd never talked about feelings—and if they had, she wouldn't have trusted a word he said. Bryce had always been working an angle—just like Sarah. Chuck, on the other hand—

He moaned, startling her. Her hands tightened on the wheel, and she swerved—just a tiny bit, but more than she was comfortable with. She'd secured the asset, alive. She was in the process of delivering him safely to his destination. What the hell was her problem?

She'd wanted to kiss him like that for months—that was the damned problem. She thought his ignorance about the way her world worked—the way he trusted everyone until proven otherwise, how he looked at her like she was his personal miracle—was cute as hell. He made her feel things she'd sworn off long ago.

Loving people wasn't safe. Hell, loving _Sarah _wasn't safe. In her world, people died and disappeared all the time. And she was no one's miracle. Beneath her arm-candy exterior was a weapon whose only motivation was her duty, except in the few-and-far-between moments she did her best to suppress.

The worst part was, she suspected Chuck saw through her tough exterior to the scraps of the innocent, scared girl who'd wanted nothing more than a family and a place to belong—a girl she thought she'd buried years ago. When he'd kissed her back, what she'd felt from him hadn't just been desperation, a what-the-hell-we're-gonna-die-anyway-so-why-not sort of passion. He'd kissed her like they had all the time in the world, like they weren't standing feet away from a bomb ticking its way down to explosion. Like he'd been waiting all his life to do this and he was damn well going to take his time.

Well, that was ridiculous. They hadn't been standing in front of a bomb—unless you counted Bryce Larkin's incendiary intentions. And Chuck was worse than an asset—he was a liability. Even if Sarah was motivated to consider deepening her cover by making their fake relationship a real one, it was a terrible idea. Chuck would screw it up, probably getting her reassigned in the process. He hadn't even managed to say ten sentences to Bryce before he'd almost gotten himself killed. And the hell of it was, if he hadn't been her asset, Sarah didn't know if she could have let Bryce stab him with that damned syringe. For the first time in years, she'd been afraid that, had the circumstances been different—if retrieving Bryce had been a higher priority than protecting Chuck—she might not have been able to do her job.

Grinding her teeth, she made a hard left at the Buy More and shoved the Porsche into fourth gear for the straightaway that led to Chuck's apartment. The sooner she got him out of her freaking car, the better.

He stirred, scrubbing at his eyes. "Sarah?" he said, as if he had absolute faith that she'd been the one to rescue him.

Naive, that's what he was. Sarah had ghosted him for two days, and he'd kept calling anyhow. Anyone else would have taken a hint, but not Chuck. The moment he'd seen her in the Buy More, deployed to talk about Bryce's resurrection, all he'd wanted to do was dissect what that stupid kiss had meant for their relationship . . . not that they had one. She should've let him eat his way into a coronary with the sandwich chick. Then again, letting him clog his arteries with smuggled salami would have been counterproductive to her prime directive—keep the asset alive at all costs.

He was going to get her killed—or worse, blow her cover. And then he was going to die, all because he couldn't compartmentalize his feelings to save his life.

"Idiot," she muttered, slowing for a red light. The Porsche responded as it always did—like an extension of her body—but for the first time, its smooth responsiveness failed to satisfy her. Inside, she felt muddled and roiling, grief and fear and an emotion she couldn't quite identify all competing for attention. She felt like taking the fancy car off-road, sending it juddering over bumps and ruts until the ride mirrored the chaos inside her.

"That's not very nice," Chuck said, slurring his words as he pushed upright. "Shouldn't you be kinder to a guy whose arch-enemy just used him as a human shield?"

Even half conscious, he was funny. Sarah repressed the urge to laugh. "I wasn't talking about you."

"Oh?" Chuck gave her a sleepy smile. "Who, then?"

She slowed her breathing and felt her heart respond in kind. Farm 101—present a calm exterior. Never let them see you sweat, especially when they're depending on you to stay alive. "Bryce Larkin," she lied. "Who else?"

"He is an idiot." Chuck sounded adorably drunk. "But he was _your_ idiot. Your undead idiot, to be precise. Vampire Bryce, at your service."

"Shut up, Chuck." She let her irritation—at him, for getting captured; at herself, for letting it happen—creep into her voice. "You're not making sense."

"Up . . . Chuck," he echoed, stifling a belch. "You're right, Sarah. Don't want to puke. Consider. Lips. Zipped." Like a little kid, he clapped a hand over his mouth and peered at her, looking green in the streetlights that streamed through the car window.

Sarah pushed the button to roll the passenger-side window down, just in case. "Don't you dare vomit in my car, Chuck. I mean it. This has been a crappy day and if I have to deal with your bodily fluids wrecking my upholstery on top of it, I won't be held accountable for my actions."

He was such an amateur. An amateur who spoke a weird language that, come to think of it, sounded bizarrely like the barking alien-speak from Star Trek. Who dated salami slingers and was impossibly adorable and kissed like Sarah was special to him and like he might even feel—

"Can't hurt me," Chuck mumbled from behind his hand. "Got to take care of me. I'm your job."

Was it her, or did he sound sad? She stole a look at him, but he'd slumped against the door again and closed his eyes.

Goddamn him, anyhow. Where did he get off, making Sarah think about her feelings at a time like this? Bryce Larkin was alive and gone rogue once again. Casey was on the rampage. The General was likely on the verge of giving birth to a rabid, vengeful cow.

Chuck was a risk. Kissing him had been a mistake. When he was in his right mind again, she would explain that, succinctly and clearly, so that he understood. He was smart. He'd get it. And then she could put all these confusing emotions away and focus on the task at hand. It was for his own good.

She swung the Porsche into the courtyard and he sat up, blinking. Without another word, she got out of the car. Chuck followed, looking more like his normal self.

"It wasn't a full dose. It will be out of your system in a few hours," Sarah offered to cover the awkward silence.

"Thanks," Chuck said, looking straight ahead. "I think I can handle it from here."

Great. Sarah could go home. Figure out what their next steps were. Make a strategy and execute it. Anything would be better than this.

Chuck paused at the fountain, turning back to face her. "So are you and Casey gonna go after Bryce?"

"No. Bryce is probably halfway around the world by now," Sarah said, hoping it was the truth. Of all the people alive, Bryce was the one Sarah least wanted to play chess with. They'd worked together for too long. He could anticipate her better than anyone else, which would make it much harder for her to protect Chuck. The further away from her asset he was, the better. "It's someone else's job to find him."

Chuck's eyes widened. "Sarah, this is Bryce Larkin we're talking about here. Your old flame. My old nemesis. We have to do something."

This was exactly why Chuck and Sarah could never be together in any genuine way. He was always thinking about the human way to handle things, instead of following orders. He would be a terrible soldier.

"We each have our own assignment," Sarah said, hoping that Chuck would read between the lines.

Being Chuck, he did no such thing. "Right, and I'm yours. So, what? What does this mean … for us?"

For the love of God. Three minutes ago, he'd been incoherent. Now they were back to having the relationship discussion he'd launched in the Buy More before everything had gone to hell? "Nothing. You're protected," she said, deliberately misunderstanding him.

Anyone else would have left the subject alone, but not Chuck. "No… for _us_. Our fake relationship. I mean, you and Bryce were…" His voice trailed off. "You're really not making this easy."

Of course she wasn't, Sarah thought, exasperated. That was the point. She wasn't making it easy, because she didn't want to talk about it. Surely one didn't need extensive training in psychological interpretation to get the hint.

Just when Sarah was tempted to inject Chuck with a sedative herself just to put a merciful end to the conversation, Ellie walked up behind her. Sarah didn't turn; she didn't need to. Clipped steps with slightly more weight on the right foot and a whiff of Pantene volumizing shampoo equaled Ellie. Right now, it also equaled salvation.

"Hey, sis," Chuck said, sounding disgruntled. Reason number 4,092 that Sarah and Chuck could never be together—he was an awful liar.

Luckily, Ellie didn't seem to notice. "Hi," she said to Chuck, juggling an armful of groceries.

"Hey," Sarah said to Ellie, as cheerily as if she and Chuck were just returning from dinner and a rom-com.

Ellie smiled at her. "Hey, Sarah. It's good to see you."

"You too." Would this evening never end?

"Are you coming to Thanksgiving?" Ellie asked.

Thanksgiving. Right. Bonding, tryptophan, cover repair.

Attending Chuck's family celebration was a necessary evil. And, if Sarah let herself think about it for more than a second, it actually sounded wonderful. She liked Ellie more than she cared to admit. If she never saw Chuck again, she wouldn't just lose him—she'd lose everything that came with him, including his misfit friends and his against-all-odds family.

Bryce had never given her that. And she'd never known she wanted it. If she had, she wouldn't have dared to hope it could be hers.

She glanced at Chuck. His mouth was open as if to speak. Hope shone in his brown eyes—eyes that, not too long ago, had been sharpened with fear and then clouded by drugs.

_I'll go to Thanksgiving_, she wanted to tell him. _But it won't mean anything, except that our cover is intact. It doesn't mean we're really together, and not because Bryce is back. Because we can't ever have anything more than what we do right now. I'll keep you safe. You stay alive. And we'll forget that kiss ever happened, no matter that some part of me wants nothing more than to do it again.  
_

"Of course," she said, and fled.

OoOoOoOoO

_Marshmallows. Bread. Lettuce. Extra cranberries in case Devon puts too much sugar in the sauce. Cheap Tupperware containers in case Morgan forgets to bring his own again. _Check, check, check, check, and also . . . check.

Running through the list one more time—the last thing he wanted was to fall victim to Ellie's Thanksgiving wrath—Chuck opened the front door, paper grocery bag in his arms. Head down, he hustled through the dining room to the kitchen.

"Chuck," Devon said from his post by the stove, sounding as jovial as Alex Trebek and wearing an honest-to-God apron, "get ready for some turkey."

Chuck opened his mouth to reply—and then turned his head. John Casey was standing in his sister's dining room, wearing a black suit fit for a funeral, looking grim as always, and holding—was that a Cosmo?

Maybe the Intersect had fried his brain once and for all and Chuck had slipped into an alternate universe.

"What are you doing here?" Chuck hissed.

"Well," Casey replied, lifting a judgmental brow, "your sister invited me to dinner."

"Really?" Maybe Bryce and General Beckman were coming too. It'd be a party. Ellie would have to send Chuck out for extra folding chairs, at which point he would strategically flee the country.

They would find him wherever he went, he thought dismally, watching his sister approach, looking thrilled to see him—or maybe it was just the prospect of extra cranberry sauce. They would always find him.

"Thanks," Casey said, without moving his lips. Maybe he was a ventriloquist as well as a secret agent. If all else failed and the NSA went to smash, he could join the circus.

Ellie hurried toward them, a woman on a mission. "Did you find everything?" she said, wresting the bag of groceries from Chuck's arms.

"Yeah, I did," Chuck said, turning away from Casey. "Yeah, but I need to talk to you. I need to talk to you about something. Later. Later," he said as she disappeared into the kitchen. For God's sake, why was he repeating himself like a parrot? And how was it reasonable that he had to deal with the whole Anna/Ellie/Morgan drama on top of Casey's presence at Thanksgiving?

Giving up on clueing Ellie in, Chuck spun back to face Casey. "Hey," he said, putting a hand on the NSA agent's shoulder.

Casey stared at Chuck's hand in horror, as if perhaps he'd dipped it in the blood of Satan before touching the pristine fabric of Casey's suit. Then again, maybe it had nothing to do with the suit. Casey had an overall disgust of being touched by other human beings, perhaps because he had a disgust of other human beings in general. Chuck had begun to suspect that Casey was not, in fact, human. Perhaps he was a well-dressed, very violent robot planted in their midst to make Chuck feel even less muscular and competent than usual.

"Sorry," Chuck said, retracting his hand. "I have a question for you." He glanced over his shoulder to make sure Ellie and Devon were out of earshot. No worries there; they were busy bickering over the best way to stuff the turkey. "What do you think Bryce meant when he said, "Casey, care to try again?'"

Casey cocked an eyebrow at him.

"Cause call me crazy," Chuck persisted—not the easiest thing to do when confronted by what had to be the single most aggressive eyebrow on the planet—"but I got the weirdest feeling like it was you who killed him."

"Good guess," Casey said, deadpan as usual.

Definitely a robot. A murderous, remorseless robot who was standing in Chuck's house, drinking a pink Cosmo.

"Are you serious?" Chuck swallowed hard. "Does Sarah know about that?"

"It's in my report," Casey said, as casually as Chuck might say, "Let me show you what we have in stock," to a customer at the Buy More.

Jesus. The cosmo-drinking robot had just admitted to killing Bryce. Well, trying to kill Bryce, but as his mother used to say before vanishing when Chuck was nine, it was the thought that counted.

"Why would you … do that? Why did you kill Bryce?"

Even as the words left Chuck's mouth, he knew it was a stupid question. What reason would Casey give for killing anyone?

"Orders," Casey said, with alarming predictability. "Your old nemesis is a very dangerous human being, Chuck. You get a chance to shoot Bryce Larkin, you shoot to kill."

Somehow, Chuck's two worlds had collided. Here he was, standing with Casey in Ellie's dining room while the smell of roast turkey filled the air, discussing Bryce Larkin's near-death experience. He stared, at a loss. Casey stared back, bored or annoyed—it was hard to tell.

Their beautiful moment was interrupted by Devon, swathed in his Thanksgiving-themed apron and bearing the star of the meal in a roasting pan. "Guys, no shop talk tonight," he said, grinning at them. "We got a bird to eat. Hey, John. Could you help me stuff this monster?"

"Cosmo?" Casey said, without missing a beat, and handed his drink to Chuck.

OoOoOoOoO

_You can do this. Pull yourself together. It's just a job.  
_

Sitting in her Porsche in a Trader Joe's parking lot five minutes from Chuck's apartment, Sarah willed herself not to hyperventilate. She'd done everything right. Followed up with the General and the Director to let them know where things stood. Armed herself in the least obtrusive way possible. Worn a festive color. Picked up a gorgeous bunch of fall flowers to give to Ellie as a hostess gift—because let's face it, no one wanted to eat Sarah's cooking, and the Internet said you had to bring something when you were a guest at someone's Thanksgiving table. So why was her stomach in knots?

True, it was embarrassing to have to Google appropriate Thanksgiving etiquette. And equally true, Bryce was still in the wind, and she knew better than to think he'd just vanished. But that didn't account for the way she felt like she might just vomit.

She'd given Chuck a hard time for nearly puking on the Porsche's pristine interior, but at least he'd had an excuse. What did Sarah have? A bunch of wilting flowers, a ticking clock, and a sneaking suspicion that she was lying to herself.

_Do your job.  
_

Sucking in a deep, steadying breath, she put the Porsche in gear and pulled into traffic.

OoOoOoOoO

Bottle of wine in hand, Ellie watched Casey walk into the kitchen to help Devon stuff the bird. "Thank you, John," she called after him. "He's so sweet," she confided to Chuck, who stifled a laugh.

"Like honey," he said. "Uh, sis, Morgan is bringing somebody tonight."

Ellie rolled her eyes, setting the wine on the table. "A real someone or an imaginary someone?"

Chuck supposed Morgan deserved that. "Uh, real, actually. Very real, and she's very nice." It wasn't a total lie. Anna could be nice, given the right circumstances—which, he feared, would not be in evidence tonight. "And, um, she—"

"She?" Ellie said in disbelief. "You said 'she.'"

Apparently, Ellie thought Morgan was gay, despite his longstanding crush on her. Wouldn't that just do wonders for his self-esteem. "Yes. Yes, Anna. Morgan's girlfriend. There could be a little issue though because she knows about you and Morgan."

Ellie looked bewildered. "What are you talking about?"

With perfect timing, the doorbell rang.

"Just remember," Chuck said, handing Casey's Cosmo to Ellie, "it's not my fault."

He pulled the door wide. There stood Sarah, beautiful and unattainable, with Morgan and Anna right behind her. "Ah, hello, Sarah and my other friends. Welcome to Thanksgiving."

Sarah stepped inside, all smiles, holding a bunch of flowers. She pressed a kiss to Chuck's sister's cheek.

"Thank you," Ellie said. "They're beautiful."

"You're welcome," Sarah said, as naturally as if she really was Chuck's girlfriend, come to enjoy Thanksgiving with the fam.

Ellie beamed. "Devon's inside over there," she said, pointing at the kitchen, and Sarah stepped past her, flowers in hand.

The first line of defense had surrendered. That left Morgan and Anna, standing face to face with Ellie. Anna had dressed to kill—not literally, Chuck hoped—in some kind of off-the-shoulder lace black shirt and more makeup than Chuck had ever seen her wear.

"Ellie," Morgan said, looking the way he always did when he spoke to Chuck's sister—like he'd come face to face with a goddess and might be struck blind at any moment. "So this is Anna, my – "

"Girlfriend," Anna interrupted, as if she didn't trust Morgan to complete the sentence.

"Right," Morgan said, a hopeless expression on his face. Chuck almost felt sorry for him.

"And this is my green-bean casserole," Anna said, like she was introducing a favored relative. "Try not to drop it."

_Please drop it, _Chuck thought with sudden fervor. A dreadful aroma emanated from the dish that held the casserole. Burnt . . . onions, perhaps? Could it be?

Anna looked Ellie up and down, her expression suffused with disdain. "It's good to meet you, finally."

Puzzlement drew Ellie's brows low as she took the casserole from Anna. "Yeah, Chuck just told me about you and Morgan. I'm so happy," she said, her tone landing somewhere between sincerity and relief.

"Hussy," Anna hissed, sweeping past Ellie into the apartment.

Chuck closed the door behind her, sighing. It was going to be a long night.

OoOoOoOoO

Thanksgiving might be a colonialist, imperialist, Manifest Destiny-embodying farce of a holiday, but damn, the food was good. And so, Chuck decided, was the company—even if two of them were secret agents, one suspected another of lusting after her boyfriend, and he himself had recently been abducted at syringe-point.

He glanced across the table at Sarah, who was sipping her wine, her eyes on the Anna/Morgan/Ellie fiasco in progress. Red was definitely her color, and she looked even more gorgeous by candlelight than she did when she was kicking a suspect in the face. For tonight, he decided, he would pretend she was his real girlfriend—not just for the sake of their cover, but in his heart. It was Thanksgiving, for God's sake. Even Casey looked like he was enjoying himself, suit and uptight attitude notwithstanding. The turkey was everything a turkey should be—moist, delectable, and reclining, half-demolished, on the bed of greens Ellie had insisted it required. The beer was cold. And Anna hadn't gone for Ellie's throat yet.

"I am in heaven," Devon said through a mouthful of food, echoing Chuck's thoughts.

"Yeah. This is so good." Sarah smiled at Ellie, who beamed back at her.

"I'm glad you like it."

"Amazing," Casey said, also with his mouth full. Chuck wished he'd recorded it for posterity. It was the nicest thing he'd ever heard Casey say to anyone.

He looked across the table at Sarah, who looked happier than he'd seen her since they'd met. _Real girlfriend. Real girlfriend. _"Do you usually do Thanksgiving?"

It seemed like an innocuous question, but Sarah's face fell. "Not recently," she said, glancing down at her plate with the fake smile she used to hide what she was feeling.

Chuck felt like an ass. Of course, Sarah hadn't recently done Thanksgiving. For all he knew, she'd _never _done Thanksgiving. If his upbringing had been a natural disaster, hers had been Hiroshima. He wanted to apologize, but she wouldn't meet his eyes.

Oblivious to anything other than the demands of his stomach, Morgan leaned back in his chair. "Oh, man, oh, man. Okay, you know what? For my second plate, I need critical side dish number two." He gestured with enthusiasm in the direction of the sweet potatoes, nearly poking Sarah in the eye.

Chuck had never known anyone to love a dish as much as Morgan loved Ellie's Thanksgiving sweet potatoes. He worshipped them with religious fervor. For Christmas, maybe Chuck would get him a potato shirt. If their relationship lasted long enough, maybe he'd get two—one for Morgan that read "She's My Sweet Potato," and another for Anna that read "I Yam." The thought made him grin.

"Oh, yeah," Devon said, passing the casserole dish across Sarah to Morgan. "There you go."

"Thank you," Morgan said. A beatific smile spread across his hairy face. And then he froze, puzzled. "There's no marshmallows on my sweet potatoes," he said, looking at Anna like she'd just told him Call of Duty 4's release was canceled.

"It's Morgan's favorite number two side dish," Anna said, glaring at Ellie with even more vitriol than before. Edging away from her to take a sip of beer, Chuck was filled with sudden relief that Anna hadn't ended up next to Sarah or Casey. She'd probably liberate one of their guns and take Ellie out before the meal was done.

"I'm sorry. I must've forgot," Ellie said, looking chagrined.

"Thanksgiving is ruined." Anna shook her head in disgust, heart-shaped earrings swaying. Beneath the table, Chuck saw her fingers twitch, as if in pursuit of a weapon.

And things had been going so well.

"No, no. Wait, that's my bad." Chuck shot to his feet. If there was a bloodbath tonight, it wouldn't be his fault. "I did pick them up. They're in the Herder. I'll be right back."

"Don't be too long," Ellie called after him, amusement clear in her voice. Had his desire to get away from Potentially Homicidal Anna been that obvious?

Well, whatever. Go to the Herder. Get the marshmallows. Deliver them and avoid murder and mayhem. How hard could it be?

Whistling, he walked out the door.

OoOoOoOoO

Mission accomplished.

Walking back from the Herder, goods in hand, Chuck reflected on just how disgusting marshmallows really were. Sure, they looked all adorable in their rainbow-striped bag, with that stupid slogan, "Have fun with your yum!" But when you got right down to it, all the sugar in the world couldn't disguise the fact that one of their key ingredients was gelatin, made from ground-up animal parts. He knew this because Dan Pugliano, a bully who'd taken great joy in making Chuck's fourth-grade life hell, had told him—right before he'd snatched Chuck's cup of marshmallow-topped hot chocolate and dumped it into Chuck's open backpack, drenching his brand-new Batman comic.

Ever since that day, Chuck had avoided eating marshmallows. Unfortunately, he hadn't been so successful at avoiding bullies. Exhibit A: Bryce Larkin, Undead Abductor.

Well, that didn't matter right now. He wasn't going to think about what nefarious activities Bryce might be planning next, or what his reappearance meant for the future of Chuck's relationship with Sarah. And he certainly wasn't going to think about whether a rogue agent who'd wrecked his life had Thanksgiving plans, because that would be absolutely ridicul—

"Hello, Chuck," Bryce said.

_Seriously?  
_

Chuck stared in disbelief as the Undead Abductor himself stepped out of the shadows next to Ellie's apartment. The guy didn't look armed with a syringe this time, much less a gun—but in the dark, how the hell was he supposed to tell? Besides, even if Bryce wasn't armed, he probably knew thirty-seven ways to cut off the flow of oxygen to Chuck's brain with his pinky finger.

There were so many things Chuck wanted to say, chief among them _Fuck you, _followed in short order by _What the hell are you doing here? _with a chaser of, _Please leave. _But when he opened his mouth, what came out instead was, "Sarah and Casey are right inside. One girlish scream, and they go into combat mode."

_Fabulous.  
_

"Relax," Bryce said. His lips curved in the grin that Chuck used to think was charming—the same smile that had once gotten Bryce all the girls he wanted, including the one Chuck loved. "This your place?"

Was this really the conversation they were having? "Ellie and I live here, yeah," Chuck said, wondering if the Intersect could somehow empower him with the ability to wield marshmallows like a weapon.

The smile shifted, fading into a grimace. "You live with your sister? What happened, Chuck? What happened to you? The guy who wanted to be the software billionaire? Bill Gates with style?"

Chuck could feel the blood rushing to his face. The hell with the marshmallows. If he thought he could make it back to the Herder in time, he'd run the bastard over with pleasure. "You got me kicked out of Stanford," he said, glaring at Bryce.

Unsurprisingly, Bryce was unfazed. Either that, or as usual, Chuck didn't register on his radar—not when he had someone more important in mind: Himself. "I need to talk to Sarah," he said, as if Chuck hadn't spoken. "Can you bring her to me? Without Casey?"

Chuck's mouth fell open. It wasn't enough for Bryce to sleep with Jill. Now he wanted Chuck to fetch him Sarah, like a dog obeying a master that had kicked him one too many times. Was this some kind of joke?

But no. Bryce stood there, hands in his pockets, his expression hovering somewhere in the territory between bored and exasperated. He reminded Chuck of Casey. And he was serious.

Unbelievable.

"Why would I help you?" Chuck said, sounding as incredulous as he felt.

Bryce shrugged, and for the first time in their conversation, an actual emotion flickered through his eyes: Fear. "Because of Fulcrum," he said. "That guy in the elevator, he works for them. And they want the Intersect, Chuck. They want you."

OoOoOoOoO

Chuck walked back inside, his heart pounding double-time. Luckily, neither of the two uber-spies sitting at the dining room table had super-hearing to go along with their mad assassin skills. He could keep his secret for a few minutes longer, while he figured out the best way to let Sarah know he was fraternizing with the enemy.

Honestly, he felt cheated. What good was having the Intersect embedded in his brain if it didn't even alert him that Bryce Larkin, rogue agent and backstabber, was lurking in the alleyway next to his house? Not to mention, both times that he'd encountered Sarah's ex-boyfriend, it'd been in an extremely compromising position. First, there'd been the abduction and subsequent injection. And now, here he was, walking back from the Herder—a car he only drove because Bryce had robbed him of his college degree and his career—clutching a bag of mini-marshmallows.

Talk about being emasculated.

Sarah smiled at him as he walked past the table to hand the stupid marshmallows to his sister. He smiled back, like a robot on autopilot. He couldn't help it—she was just so beautiful. She was everything he'd ever wanted. And her should-be-dead asshole of an ex-everything was sneaking in through Chuck's bedroom window right this second.

He sucked in a lungful of air, which smelled like roast turkey and butter and whatever atrocity Anna'd committed upon an innocent dish of green beans. It also smelled like defeat.

"Thank God the marshmallows are back," Devon said, like Chuck had survived a war rather than extracted a bag of Kraft Jet-Puffed from the back of the Herder. Chuck's sister had managed to find a nice guy, despite the cluster fuck of their upbringing. She and Devon had a profession in common. They were building a lovely life together. Which begged the question—why was Chuck such a screw-up?

Ellie held out a hand for the marshmallows and Chuck relinquished them, making a conscious effort to unclench his fingers. He was gripping the bag so hard, his nails had left tiny half-moons in the plastic.

"Thank you," she said, only half her attention on Chuck. The rest was focused on digging in a drawer for some utensil, which was lucky. Ellie didn't miss much when it came to her brother, which was going to make the next few minutes especially challenging. He needed a distraction, any distraction.

Maybe Chuck could clue Sarah in, then choke on a turkey bone or something. He had two doctors there, after all. They'd feel compelled to save him.

Doing his best not to envision Bryce Larkin in his room, inspecting it for additional ways to sabotage his existence, Chuck slid back into his seat in time to hear Anna tell Morgan, "I made this for you."

She was holding up the green bean casserole like an offering. A burnt offering, like that classic horror movie Morgan and Chuck had watched one time when there was nothing else on TV and Chuck was sick of playing Halo.

"Thank you," Morgan said, scooping some onto his plate. "Thank you." Poor sucker—like over-complimenting Anna's generosity in preparing the Green Bean Atrocity was going to save him from having to consume it.

Anna eyed Morgan expectantly. He eyed the green beans expectantly. Everyone else eyed all three of them expectantly, like Anna, Morgan, and the side dish were starring in a crappy sitcom and the rest of the guests were waiting for the cue that would lead them into their next laugh line. Except the last thing Chuck felt like doing right now was laughing.

He forked a piece of turkey into his mouth and managed to swallow it. It sat in his stomach like a weight.

Chuck might've managed to fool Ellie, but Sarah didn't have any wayward utensils to distract her. Her eyes narrowed as she watched him from across the table. "Everything okay?"

Everything was so far from okay, he didn't even know how to address it. "Yeah, everything's great," he lied, attacking his turkey with the fork like it'd done something to offend him.

Her eyebrows drew down ever so slightly, the way they did when she didn't believe someone was telling the truth. If they were playing poker, it'd be a tell, for sure. Chuck was surprised they didn't train it out of her at the Farm. Maybe they didn't think anyone would notice—but he did. He noticed everything about her.

At the other end of the table, the Drama of the Crappy Casserole was still in full swing. "Do you like it?" Anna said, leaning forward to look at Morgan, whose mouth was crammed full.

He swallowed, looking pained. "Mm-hm. Very much. It's devastating—" he winced, took in her anticipatory expression, and pasted the world's fakest smile on his face—"devastatingly good."

Devastating was the word for that casserole, all right. It was also the word for what Anna would do to Morgan if he didn't learn to lie better than this. Maybe Chuck could get Sarah to give him lessons—if the two of them were still speaking after tonight.

"Does anyone else want some?" Anna chirped. She held the casserole dish up hopefully, glancing around the table. Morgan took this opportunity to knock back the entirety of his glass of wine, likely in an attempt to neutralize the effects of the casserole.

_Neutralize. _Damn. Chuck was even starting to sound like them.

Speaking of which—what the hell was he going to do about the rogue spy in his bedroom? Bryce wouldn't stay in there forever. Much longer, and Chuck was probably going to glance up from the table to find him plastered to the ceiling like Spiderman.

Casey actually grabbed for the casserole dish. Nice to know Chuck could add 'masochist' to the NSA agent's list of qualifications. Or maybe Casey was just testing himself. _If I can withstand this apocalypse of a side dish, I'll be one step closer to resisting torture by the enemy.  
_

Devon's eyes widened as Casey reached past him. Then, to Chuck's horror, he reached out and squeezed Casey's bicep. Even in Chuck's panicked state, this shocked him. His eyes met Sarah's across the table. She looked as appalled as he felt.

Well, Chuck had wanted a distraction.

Casey looked down at Devon's fingers, and for an awful moment, Chuck thought he was going to break them one by one. The NSA agent didn't say a word, but it was a terrible, loaded silence.

"Nice and tight, John!" Devon said, letting go. "I'm impressed. You work out?"

_Sure, _Chuck imagined Casey saying. _I dismantle human beings for a living. Like what you do, except I have no intention of putting them back together again.  
_

For once, Chuck was grateful for Casey's aggravating tendency to speak in monosyllables. "Yeah," he grunted, slopping the green beans onto his plate. "Work keeps me in shape."

A puzzled look flashed across Devon's face. "How many calories do you burn at the Buy More?"

It was now or never. Chuck leaned across the table, caught Sarah's eye again, and mouthed, _Bryce Larkin is in my bedroom.  
_

Sarah stared at him. Then her jaw clenched—which, for her, was practically the equivalent of a full-on nervous breakdown. Chuck knew just how she felt.

Devon and Casey were still engaged in Operation Mystery Muscle Man. "You tell me," Casey said in response to Devon's question—again with the monosyllables.

"About 350 an hour, max. You look like a guy who needs an adventure," Devon said, with the conviction of someone who'd come up with the worst idea of all time. "Two words: Water sports."

But as Chuck watched Sarah set down her wine glass and square her shoulders, gearing herself up to confront the ex-boyfriend she'd thought was dead, he knew something for sure: The worst idea of all time was letting Bryce Larkin into his sister's house. And one way or another, Chuck would pay.

OoOoOoOoO

"Excuse me," Sarah said, dropping her napkin next to her plate and pushing her chair back from the table. "Too much wine. Be right back."

Ellie raised her glass in a toast as Sarah headed down the hallway toward the bathroom—which, conveniently, was in the same direction as Chuck's bedroom. Guilt stabbed her, sharp as a blade. For the past hour, she'd forgotten that Chuck was her asset and she was his handler. Forgotten that she was a spy and a liar. She'd let herself relax into the fiction she'd created—that she was a normal woman sharing Thanksgiving dinner with her boyfriend's family. A family that wouldn't want anything to do with her if they knew the truth.

Sarah was amazed that _Chuck_ still wanted anything to do with her after the past couple days—much less that he'd agreed to let Bryce meet with her in private. Then again, Chuck was the original nice guy. A great guy, actually. Brilliant and funny and brave. He deserved better than Sarah—the armed holiday infiltrator who was trotting off to meet her ex-boyfriend in her current-fake-boyfriend's bedroom.

This was work, she told herself. The job. But for once, she couldn't make herself believe the lie.

The truth was, this was the first real Thanksgiving she'd ever had. Eating microwaved Stouffer's with her dad in front of the TV didn't count, and after the CIA'd gotten hold of her, she'd been too busy training to think about stuffing herself with turkey and cranberry sauce. It wasn't like anyone in the CAT Squad was domesticated enough to cook, and as for her time with Bryce, the closest he'd ever came to cooking anything was when he'd accidentally flambéed a rabbit on an operation where they'd had to blow up a barn.

She'd teared up when she found the rabbit lying in the snow, its fur half-seared off—not that she'd let Bryce see. The Ice Queen didn't cry.

The point was, she'd let herself believe that she'd belonged at that table, with Anna's horrible casserole and Morgan's favorite number two side dish and Casey's resting bastard face. Most of all, she'd let herself believe she belonged there with Chuck.

But she knew better. She didn't belong anywhere. Except maybe here, turning the doorknob of the bedroom of the man she'd rather not love, about to confront a rogue spy who ought to be dead.

Bracing herself, she opened the door and stepped inside.

Sarah took everything in at once, as she'd been trained to do. Tron poster. Gray bedspread, neatly made. Guitar propped in chair. No Bryce.

He dropped from the ceiling, landing behind her. "You're getting rusty," he said.

Turning, Sarah rolled her eyes. That was Bryce, always one for theatrics—in the bedroom and out of it. "Bryce, I have a gun. Do I need to use it?"

"I'm unarmed," he said, hands open at his sides—as if that proved anything. "And I'm sorry."

Sarah wanted to ask him what he was sorry for—vanishing? Letting her think he was dead? Injecting Chuck with that sedative? But all of that was irrelevant. Bryce was a fugitive. She knew her duty. "Why shouldn't I arrest you right now?" she said, raising an eyebrow.

He raised his right back, and with horror, she realized he was flirting with her. "Because I'm not a rogue spy," he said, stepping closer. "Because the Intersect was a mission. Because, Sarah, you're still in love with me."

And then the bastard kissed her.

OoOoOoOoO

Sarah had been right. Chuck was an idiot.

Upon further consideration, maybe he wasn't as much of an idiot as his sister's boyfriend, who was still trying to convince Stone Face Casey to join him on a water sports extravaganza. Chuck wanted to tell Devon that the last thing Casey needed in his life was another adventure, but he didn't trust himself to speak.

"Two dudes. One raft. White-water rapids." Devon grinned at Casey, who returned the favor. The sight was appalling. Casey grinned like a shark—right before it bit. His smile didn't reach his eyes, but Devon didn't seem to notice. All hail-fellow-well-met, he looked Chuck's way. "I got some brochures I gave to Chuck. Hey, those rafting brochures still in your room?"

Chuck's room—where that asshole Bryce currently was, having a private meeting with Chuck's girlfriend . . . who might be Chuck's fake girlfriend, his cover. Or maybe not, after the way she'd kissed Chuck in front of that bomb—what they'd thought was a bomb, anyway. Come to think of it, maybe they weren't wrong. Bryce was kind of like a bomb, just waiting to explode if Casey found out he was anywhere near this house.

The hell with Casey. Ellie'd take him out, before Mr. Work-Keeps-Me-in-Shape could draw one of the seventy-nine weapons he'd doubtless concealed on his person. Either way, this evening was bound to end in carnage, marshmallows or no marshmallows. What had Chuck been thinking, letting him in?

The room fell silent. It took Chuck a second to realize this was because Devon had asked him a question, which he'd been too busy pondering the evolution of Chuck Ruins Thanksgiving Through Another Act of Failed Espionage to answer. "What?" he managed, almost choking on a mouthful of what had to be the worst green bean casserole ever to emerge from an oven.

"Don't worry, Devon," Ellie said, pushing back from the table. "I'm headed that way. I'll get them."

_Shit. _"No, no, no," Chuck said, jumping to his feet so fast he almost knocked his chair over. Casey grabbed it with those creepy supernatural reflexes of his, giving Chuck a glance that hovered somewhere between suspicion and disappointment. Usually this bugged Chuck—it was aggravating to be the dude with the world's most powerful supercomputer in his head, yet be unable to navigate the world without screwing up left and right—but right now he couldn't care less. "I'll get them," he said, chasing after Ellie, who was already halfway down the hall.

"Don't be silly," she said. "Go back to your green bean casserole. I hear it's delicious."

Chuck couldn't manage a smart-ass comment. He couldn't manage anything. He didn't think he was breathing.

Because Ellie'd pushed open the door to his bedroom. And there, in the middle of his floor, right in front of his Tron poster, was Bryce Larkin with his tongue down Sarah's throat.

He didn't care if she was his girlfriend or not. If she was his cover or something more. All he knew was that if Sarah had gone ahead and shot him when Bryce was using him as a human shield, it wouldn't have hurt any worse than this.

OoOoOoOoO

"What the actual fuck?"

Sarah's first thought was that she'd never heard Ellie swear. On its heels came the realization that Ellie was five feet away, cursing at her—and there Sarah stood, making out with Bryce. The guy who'd slept with Chuck's girlfriend, gotten him kicked out of college, derailed his career, put a target on his back, and, most recently, used him as a human shield—not that Ellie knew about the latter, but still.

Sarah was facing the door. Bryce had his back to Ellie. Maybe she could pass this off as cheating on Chuck with a random burglar who'd broken into Ellie's brother's bedroom. _He was going to kill us all, _she'd say, _so I kissed him to change his mind. As you can see, it worked. Really, if you think about it, I'm a hero.  
_

Sarah stepped back from Bryce and opened her mouth to implement this strategy—she was, after all, the daughter of a con man—but one look at Ellie's face let her know it was a lost cause. Ellie was turning the color of Sarah's shirt, her hands clenched into fists. "Tell me," she said, her voice menacing enough to give Casey a run for his money, "that's not Bryce Larkin. Tell me you put a hallucinogen in my wine. Because that would piss me off, but not nearly as much as what I think I'm seeing right now."

Sarah wanted to tell Ellie that though she'd done far worse than spike someone's drink to get her way, she would never, ever do such a thing to Ellie. They were friends, for God's sake—except maybe, not anymore.

"You're dead," Ellie said, a comment that was presumably directed at Bryce. Who knows—it could just as easily be a threat intended for Sarah, given the circumstances. "Chuck went to your _funeral_, you worthless piece of shit. How the hell are you standing here?"

Bryce's mouth fell open, but he didn't say a word. Why couldn't he have been struck mute a few minutes ago, before he'd told Sarah she was still in love with him?

Still as arrogant as always. Some things never change.

Sarah shouldn't have kissed him back. But she'd thought he was _dead_. She'd grieved for him. Missed him. Felt betrayed by him.

Despite all that, she'd never been in love with him. She knew that now, for sure. Maybe that's what this kiss had been—a test.

But none of that mattered now. She'd made a mistake. And, like a dumbass rookie, she'd gotten caught—along with her ex-partner. Some CIA operatives they were.

"Ellie—" Sarah started, but the word just hung there. If the situation involved shooting, hostage negotiation, or interrogation, she'd know exactly what to do. But here, she was at a total loss.

Tears shone in Ellie's eyes. "And _you_!" she said, her voice rising. "I invited you to my home. Trusted you with my brother. And what do you do? Sneak away from Thanksgiving dinner to do the nasty with the world's vilest undead human being in Chuck's _bedroom_!"

"I know how bad this looks," Bryce said, evidently having decided to give confirmation bias a try. Sarah wanted to kick him, but touching him again in any context would have been a major tactical error.

"You're right," Ellie said, glaring at Sarah as if she'd like to sling a dish of sweet potatoes at her head—or shoot Sarah with her own gun. "It couldn't be worse."

Except she was wrong. Because behind her, in the shadows of the hallway, Sarah caught a glimpse of the one person she'd hoped wouldn't see this.

"You've got to be kidding me, Sarah," Chuck said.

OoOoOoOoO

Sarah's face went white. Her eyes flicked from Ellie to Chuck and then back again. Chuck could see her calculating, trying to figure out a way to escape this mess—and coming up empty.

"Chuck," she said, her voice pleading.

Chuck didn't know what to do. As fast as if they were being delivered courtesy of the Intersect, strategies flipped through his mind. Kick Sarah out, and he'd blow the cover they just managed to piece back together. Act as if they were a happy ménage à trois—Chuck, his girlfriend, and his arch-nemesis who'd been resurrected from the dead—and Ellie'd be scanning his brain for evidence of a covert stroke before Morgan hoovered up the rest of the sweet potatoes. Throw a punch at Bryce, and he'd wind up getting an MRI anyhow—right after Bryce smashed his skull.

Any way you look at it, he was screwed.

You'd think he'd know what to do about this. Getting fucked over was, after all, a Chuck Bartowski Special. They should have named a drink after him—for all the nice-guy losers who didn't wind up getting the girl. Or the degree they'd spent three and a half years busting their ass to earn, only to wind up Head Nerd of the Herd.

What would Bryce Larkin's drink be? A Molotov cocktail? 007 Martini? Sex on the Beach?

Chuck would be willing to bet Sarah and Bryce'd had sex on a beach somewhere, right after they tandem-jumped out of a helicopter and saved the world from a zombie terrorist invasion. Probably while Chuck was behind the counter at the Buy-More, upgrading someone's iPhone.

The image rendered him speechless. Unsurprisingly, Ellie had no such problem. "Get out!" she said, glaring between Sarah and Bryce.

"But—" Sarah said, her eyes on Chuck.

If Ellie were a dog, her hackles would be standing on end. She stepped inside the bedroom, Chuck behind her, and shut the door. "Don't look at my brother. Look at me. This is my house, and you're not welcome here. Not now, not ever. Get. Out."

"I—"

Ellie drew herself up to her full height. "Don't speak. You," she said, pointing an awful finger at Bryce, "leave the way you came in, which I imagine was through that window, for which I am going to purchase a lock. I've had just about enough of people swinging through here like it's Grand Central Station. And you," she said, swiveling to face Sarah, "make an excuse. Anything. I don't care what. A sick grandmother. Period cramps. Nuclear fallout in the Balkans that you're somehow uniquely equipped to mitigate. Just don't sit back down at my dining room table, or I swear to God you'll be wearing that abomination of a green bean casserole like a hat."

Chuck's mouth fell open. He hadn't heard Ellie sound this furious since he'd gotten caught hacking into his high school's server to change the grade of a friend who'd badly needed to pass 10th grade Chem. Not to mention, of all of those excuses, the crisis in the Balkans was actually the most likely scenario. "Ellie," he said, trying not to sound as betrayed as he felt, "it's Thanksgiving. Maybe we should—"

She spun to face him. "No, Chuck. You're too nice for your own good. You always have been. After what happened with Jill—and this worthless excuse for a human being—I swore I'd never let anyone hurt you like that again. Well, I might not be able to stop it from happening, but I can sure as hell keep these two assholes from kicking you when you're down. I don't care if it's Thanksgiving or Christmas or the freaking Fourth of July. You're my little brother, this is my house, and I'm not having it."

Hands on hips, she advanced on Bryce, who—to Chuck's shock—retreated. "I'm not going to ask again. Get. Out. Now."

OoOoOoOoO

With a final glance at Sarah, Bryce did as ordered, slipping through the window and landing silently on the ground below. Sarah knew she hadn't seen the last of him.

How the hell had this happened? One second she'd been buying flowers and exchanging isn't-Morgan-ridiculous glances with Chuck over wine. Now she was standing in Chuck's bedroom, her lips still tingling from kissing a man she thought she'd never see again, watching Chuck stare at her like his heart was breaking.

It was a _cover_, damn it. Not a real relationship. How many times had she told Chuck that? He had no right to look at her that way.

But if it was just a cover, why did her chest hurt like whatever beat inside of it had cracked in two?

Not only was it a cover—it was a cover that she—CIA agent extraordinaire—had just blown to smithereens. Chuck might be able to act as if he forgave her—might even _actually _forgive her, decent human being that he was. But Ellie? There was no way. She'd raised Chuck. Ellie was a lioness and Chuck her brilliant, weaponized cub. Even if Sarah had the slightest chance of getting Chuck to agree to maintain their cover, Ellie would do everything in her power to keep the two of them apart.

Sarah hadn't just lost Chuck—she'd lost Ellie, the closest _normal_ friend she'd ever had. She'd lost too-cheerful Devon and obnoxious Morgan and candlelit Thanksgiving dinners. She'd lost her only shot—however farcical—at a normal life and a family.

The ache inside her chest intensified, until it was hard to breathe. "Please, Chuck," she said. "There's a reason—I can explain—"

But he turned his face away.

Goddamn Bryce. Why had he kissed her?

Why had she let him? She could have pushed him away, had him down on the floor with a gun in his back before his lips had ever touched hers.

Maybe she'd screwed it up on purpose, because she cared too much about Chuck. Because, God help her, she wanted this to be more than just a cover. She wanted it to be real, and it scared the hell out of her.

Was it possible that the pain in her chest was heartache—because she loved him?

It made no difference. She'd blown their cover, when all along she'd thought Chuck would be the one to screw it up. And now they might reassign her, give Chuck's protection detail to some less competent agent who would probably get him killed.

All she'd ever wanted to do was protect him. But instead, she'd destroyed him. One look at his face told her that. There was a hardness to his eyes and a set to his jaw she'd never seen before.

The openness she'd always mocked him for—it was his greatest strength. And her closed-off, let-no-one-in emotional blockade—it was her weakness.

She would never be able to make this right. Bryce was out there right this minute, plotting God knew what. If he'd gotten into Chuck's room once, he could do it again, no matter how many locks Ellie put on his window. And if Sarah wasn't there to protect Chuck, what would happen to him?

"Chuck," she said again, but he shook his head.

"There's nothing left to say."

She'd never heard him sound like that. So remote, so cold.

"You heard my brother," Ellie said, twisting the doorknob with unnecessary force. "March your over-aerobicized butt down the hall, tell my guests that you've been stricken with Ebola, get into your fancy car, and go back where you came from."

Sarah's lips trembled, but she didn't say a word. Head held high, she slipped past Ellie and Chuck, walked down the hallway, and obeyed.

* * *

This is our first story here. Please let us know what you think and leave a review.


	2. Judas' Kiss

Chapter Two … in which Sarah contemplates the error of her ways, Chuck stands up for what he believes in, and Casey is forced to abandon his apple pie.

This chapter is a little shorter than our initial installment. Future chapters will be approximately as long as this one, allowing us to update more frequently.

Disclaimer: We don't own Chuck…

* * *

**Chapter 2: Judas' Kiss  
**

The ten seconds it took for Sarah to walk from Chuck's bedroom to the dining room felt like an eternity. Ellie followed right behind her, so close that if she'd been anyone else, Sarah would've spun and told them to back off. She didn't trust anyone at her back that way. The irony, of course, was that this was happening because Ellie didn't trust her—and for good reason.

She'd never wanted to hurt Chuck. And now she'd betrayed him like so many other people had done. She was no better than his mother or father, than Bryce or Jill. She didn't blame Ellie for hating her.

Tears welled in Sarah's eyes, and she blinked them back as the dining room came into view. The table was still laden with delicious food. Her half-drunk glass of wine sat, waiting for her. Morgan and Anna were still arguing; Devon was still quizzing Casey about his fitness regime. The scene looked just the same—and yet everything had changed.

Guilt filled Sarah's throat, choking her. She wasn't going to lose it in front of these people. She had dignity, if nothing else.

"I'm sorry," she said, grabbing her purse from the shelf in the kitchen where she'd stashed it and slinging it over her shoulder. "Something's come up and I need to leave."

Five people swiveled to stare at her—Devon, Morgan, and Anna with confusion; Ellie with barely concealed fury; and Casey, with a 'what now, Walker' quirk of his eyebrow.

She slipped out the door before anyone could start asking questions.

Out in the courtyard, she stood for a moment, her back to the apartment's door, and scanned for Bryce. She knew him, rogue agent or not—how he moved, where he'd hide. He wasn't here. But her intuition prickled, telling her he hadn't gone far—and over the years, paying attention to her gut had saved her life more times than she could count.

Sighing, she sat down on the edge of the fountain and put her head in her hands. How could she have been so stupid? She would get reassigned now, she knew it. And she could hardly blame the Director. She'd blown her cover and compromised Chuck's safety. And now he was in his house, with Bryce roaming around, and only Casey inside to protect him. She'd fucked up everything.

Tears slipped between her fingers and splashed onto her shirt. Sarah ignored them. Crying was pointless, a waste of energy, other than when it was directed at a mark. They'd told her so, at the Farm: _Tears can be an effective method of manipulation, if utilized appropriately_. But there was no one here to see if the Ice Queen melted. No one but Sarah, and she was too miserable to care.

Ever since Budapest, she hadn't felt like herself. She'd never defied orders before, but there was no way she was going to deliver that baby like a UPS package to her one-time handler. Graham had rented her out like a power tool and Ryker had used her for his own ends: _Here, take Sarah. She'll get the job done_. Holding that baby, for the first time she'd felt that maybe the cost she paid for her job was too high. Sitting here, she felt that way again.

She'd never known any other life but the cons she'd run with her father and then the CIA. She did her job and she was damn good at it. But now there was Chuck, and for the first time she had a glimpse of what it might feel like to be normal. To feel loved.

She'd liked it. More than liked it, if she was being honest. She more than liked _Chuck_. He felt like home.

They were going to send her away. She was going to lose everything.

Sarah drew her knees up, buried her face in her arms, and cried.

OoOoOoOoO

Chuck sank onto his bed, staring at his Tron poster as if it held the secrets of the universe. The longer he stared at it, the madder he got. For years, he'd carted the poster from house to house, encased in bubble wrap like a family heirloom. He'd stuck it on his bedroom wall wherever he lived—from the dorm room he'd shared with Bryce to his place here at Ellie's. The damn poster was the first thing he saw when his eyes opened and the last thing he saw at night. And all because it made him think about his father, who'd promised to make his kids pancakes for dinner and then never came home.

Chuck's mom had disappeared. His dad had disappeared. Bryce had betrayed him. Jill had cheated on him. But Ellie and Morgan had stuck by him, and he'd reminded himself every day that that meant there was still good left in the world. He'd promised himself he wouldn't let himself become bitter, like a certain beefy NSA agent—that he'd keep trusting people despite ample evidence to the contrary. Human beings were inherently decent. He believed that. He had to.

Sarah thought he was naïve. A dreamer. Sometimes she got this disbelieving, tolerant look on her face—eyebrows up, lips pursed—as if she was a millisecond away from patting him on the head like a little kid who still believed in the Easter Bunny. But he wasn't naïve—how could he be, after the trajectory his life had taken? He just chose to see the good in people, to be kind and hope karma would play itself out accordingly.

He'd trusted Sarah—with his safety, if not his heart. Her job was to protect him. And yet there she'd been, making out with Bryce Effing Larkin, two feet from where Chuck sat right now.

What a freaking mess.

Their cover was blown. Smashed. Pulverized. Even if Chuck were inclined to forgive Sarah, Ellie would never let him hear the end of it—not to mention, he had to come up with some explanation for how Bryce had been in his bedroom rather than six feet under. Or maybe that could be Sarah's problem. Maybe Chuck could plead total ignorance. The alternative—telling Ellie that he was the one who'd let Bryce in—wasn't an option.

"Happy Thanksgiving," Chuck said glumly to Tron, tugging at a loose thread on his comforter. The quilt promptly began to unravel—much like his life.

The door to his room swung open and hit the wall with a thud. Casey loomed in the doorway, filling the frame. "What the hell is going on, Bartowski? Walker just made up some bullshit excuse and bailed."

"Maybe the green bean casserole got to her," Chuck said, tugging on the thread harder. The last thing he wanted was Casey's pity—if a dude who could give the Terminator a run for his money was capable of such a thing.

"Very amusing. Did you screw up, Bartowski?" Casey arched his eyebrows. "You're a moron, that's a given—but I can't imagine what even you could do to drive your fake girlfriend away on Thanksgiving, before she had a chance to try the apple pie that Devon made me brush with egg wash. _Egg wash_, Bartowski. _Me. _And here I am, talking to your sorry ass, instead of eating a piece."

Chuck sighed, dismissing the visual of an apron-wearing Casey, whisk in hand, ministering to Devon's pie with the same intensity he brought to visiting destruction upon all who crossed his path. "Short version: Ellie walked in on Bryce and Sarah making out in my room," he said, getting to his feet. Facing Casey was bad enough without doing it sitting down. "She went thermonuclear, then kicked them both out. Bryce climbed through the window. Sarah said…whatever she said. Summary: Bryce is still out there, Sarah's cover's screwed, Ellie's supremely pissed, Thanksgiving sucks. The end."

"So you did screw up." Casey glared at him. "You let him in, didn't you? What exactly happened when you went out to get those marshmallows?"

Only Casey could make a sentence like that sound threatening. "Bryce was there, in the alley. He said he needed to see Sarah, alone. I know I shouldn't have told him how to get in—"

"Of course you shouldn't," Casey said, cracking his knuckles as if in preparation for doing the same to Bryce's skull. "But he would've gotten in anyhow, if that's what he wanted. You just made it easier for him. On his own, he's very dangerous. With Walker—let's just say they were quite the team. Perfect. Unstoppable."

Chuck wished the Intersect had equipped him with the ability to shoot lasers from his eyes, so he could blast Mr. I-Was-Lab-Engineered-and-Therefore-Have-No-Empathy through the same window Bryce had just crawled out of. "Yes. Apparently, they are still quite the team, as I was just unfortunate enough to witness. But I appreciate the reinforcement."

Casey scanned the room, as if for evidence. His eyes flicked over Chuck, up to the ceiling—maybe Bryce was Spiderman, after all?—then to the Morgan door. "Sorry, Bartowski. But now is not the time for lady feelings." Presumably in a demonstration of solidarity, he pounded Chuck on the back. Chuck staggered, his knees buckling, and Casey shot him a look of profound disappointment. "Now is the time for action. And action, Bartowski, is where I shine."

"What are you going to do?"

"I'll give you two guesses," Casey said, flexing his biceps in a way that would've doubtless made Devon swoon, "and the first one doesn't count."

"This is my sister's _apartment_!" Chuck's voice squeaked. "No bloodshed on Thanksgiving. I forbid it."

One of Casey's brows arched. Really, the man had the most expressive eyebrows Chuck had ever seen. If he hadn't become a federal agent, he could've had a promising career as an eyebrow model.

"I strongly dislike Bryce Larkin." Chuck's voice dropped to a whisper. "One might even say I hate him. I have considerable incentive to want him to disappear. Re-disappear. Whatever. But come on, Casey. You can't. Not on Thanksgiving. Can't you just hunt him down and tie him up or something?"

"Maybe Sarah's already taken care of that for me," Casey said, smiling wider. "A man can hope."

Chuck stared at him. "Did you just insinuate—"

"She sure ran out of here in a hurry, that's all I'm saying."

"Because my sister threw her out!"

"Whatever you've got to tell yourself," Casey said, and started to hum the theme song to Mission Impossible.

"Do you have any idea how much of an asshole you're being at this moment?"

He clapped Chuck on the back again. "At least I'm honest with you, which is more than I can say for some people."

"That," Chuck said, shoving his hands into his pockets so he wouldn't commit the fatal error of trying to strangle John Casey, "is a low blow."

Casey held the door open like the world's most homicidal bellboy, looking happier than Chuck had ever seen him. "Look at the bright side, Bartowski. It's a glorious day. The Cosmo was on point, the green bean casserole hasn't poisoned me yet, and I look forward to the opportunity of killing Bryce Larkin again."

The only thing more terrifying than a murderous Casey, it turned out, was a gleeful, chivalrous Casey. Frowning, Chuck hung back. "And what am I supposed to do while you're turning my apartment complex into high noon at the OK Corral?"

The amusement faded from Casey's face, replaced by his usual impassive mask. "Use that big brain of yours, Stanford. I'm sure you'll think of something. But whatever it is, you'll be doing it at your sister's dining room table, given that Walker screwed your cover six ways from Sunday and that bastard Larkin is still in the wind."

"You expect me to just sit here and do nothing while Bryce is out there doing God knows what and Sarah's—" Chuck's voice trailed off. He could've sworn Sarah hadn't wanted to leave, but maybe that had just been an act. She'd never defy orders by abandoning Chuck, but Ellie had demanded she go. What if that was the perfect excuse Sarah needed—a cover inside a cover? What if she and Bryce were together right now, reminiscing about old times? Or what if Bryce had somehow talked Sarah into believing he was a good guy, and now _she _was the one tied to a chair?

It was impossible. Sarah was the best the CIA had to offer. Everyone said so. Even Casey.

But then, so was Bryce. That's why they'd been partnered.

Why the hell was Chuck worried about Sarah's well-being, given what she'd just done—aside from the fact that she'd left him unprotected? Why couldn't he be an unfeeling bastard like Casey, and decide that Bryce and Sarah deserved each other?

Frustrated, Chuck ran a hand through his hair. He glanced back up to see Casey eyeing him with exasperation.

"Focus, Bartowski," the NSA agent hissed. "I don't give a shit about your emotional well-being right now. I just care whether or not you get dead—which isn't going to happen on my watch. We've shot the shit long enough and things are about to get messy. Until I've secured Bryce Larkin, you will by-God gobble turkey with that idiot Morgan, his annoying girlfriend, your sister, and Mr. Betty Crocker. You will make polite small talk. You will stay safe, you will act like everything is fine, and you will stop looking like a kicked puppy."

Chuck drew himself up to his full height. "I do not look like a kicked—"

"Yes, you do. And yes, I noticed. I just don't care. Pull yourself together. She wasn't even your real girlfriend." Casey shifted his weight and gestured out the door. "It's bad enough your sister's out there looking like Christmas was canceled because Sarah killed Santa. Sit your ass at the table. Do damage control. Don't die. _Capisce?_"

_Don't die. _His new mantra. "Fine," Chuck muttered, squeezing past him. "Anything else?"

"You do have one other mission." Casey eyed him speculatively.

Finally, Chuck would get to do something meaningful. He could do surveillance from inside the house, looking through the windows while concealing himself behind furniture or a potted plant. Or maybe Casey had something technological in mind—a grenade Chuck could detonate remotely or a code he could crack. "What?" he said, turning to face Burbank's excuse for the Terminator.

"Save me a piece of pie," Casey ordered, and strode off down the hall.

OoOoOoOoO

Sarah was distracted from her misery by the sound of the door to Chuck's apartment clicking open. She lifted her head and scrubbed her tears away, hoping against hope that Chuck had come to find her. Surely he'd listen when she explained that she'd made a terrible mistake. She would apologize, and with time he might forgive her, because he was a decent human being—far better than Sarah herself.

Her hopes were dashed when Casey shut the door behind him and stepped into the courtyard, alone.

"Nice work, CIA," he said when he spotted her. "Wait. Were you _crying_?"

Crap. "I—"

"Spare me," he said, stepping past her. "Where the hell is Larkin?"

"Gone," she said, but he had already swept the courtyard and was on his way to hunt for Bryce in the front of the complex.

Sarah got to her feet, dabbing beneath her eyes to make sure she hadn't smeared her mascara. She was the best chance they had at locating Bryce—not to mention, she wanted to be the one to find him. First he'd gone rogue, then he'd endangered Chuck, and now he'd blown her cover. Sarah would find him, and do what had to be done.

She got to her feet just as Morgan and Anna came outside. "What are you still doing here?" Morgan said, looking puzzled. "I thought you had an emergency."

Sarah turned and bent, as if looking for something on the ground. When she straightened, she was holding one of her earrings. "I lost this," she said, holding it up. "Just found it. I'm leaving now."

"Maybe you want to go back inside." Morgan tilted his head. "Chuck seems kind of upset. Ellie, too. Captain Awesome is holding it together, but something's wrong."

"Heaven forbid Ellie should be upset," Anna said, tugging at Morgan's hand. In her other hand, she held her casserole dish. "She didn't even appreciate my green bean casserole. People have killed for this recipe. Killed, I tell you." She stomped past Sarah, pulling Morgan behind her. "Oh, hello, Casey. You actually have good taste. You, I like."

The NSA agent grunted as he walked past the fountain and came to stand beside Sarah. "Yep, he's gone," Casey said as soon as Morgan and Anna were out of earshot. "Call it in from my place. I'll check the back."

He disappeared down the alleyway, and Sarah edged toward the door of his apartment, careful to steer clear of the sightline of Chuck's place. The last thing she needed was Ellie or Devon out here asking questions.

She took a step closer—and froze. Someone was inside Casey's apartment. She could see their shadow.

Scratch that—_Bryce _was inside Casey's apartment. It had to be him.

Slipping off her shoes, she pushed the front door open and stepped through, gun in hand. As she eased around the corner, she could see Bryce at Casey's computer, typing away. His back was to her, but Sarah knew better than to think she truly had the drop on him.

"Don't move, Bryce," she said, leveling her gun.

He spun, weapon in hand. "Oh, good. It's you. I can explain."

"Don't bother," she said, gritting her teeth. "You've done quite enough already."

"What are you going to do, Sarah? Shoot me? I think we both know you still lo—"

She shot him in the chest before he could finish. His eyes widened, and his mouth opened as if to speak. Then he fell, thudding to the carpet, unconscious or dead.

Casey would be pissed if she got blood on the rug. Then again, Bryce wasn't noticeably bleeding—an issue for a man who'd just been shot in the heart for the second time. She kicked the gun out of his hand and knelt beside him, ripping open his shirt.

The bastard was wearing a bulletproof vest. She hadn't really expected anything else; it was what she herself would have done. Rummaging in her purse for zip-ties, she secured his hands behind him and his feet to his hands. There—hog-tied like the pig he was.

The front door clicked shut, a moment before she heard Casey's footfalls. "Well, I guess this wasn't a total failure," he said when he saw Bryce. "I did tell Bartowski you'd have Bryce all tied up."

"You told Chuck _what_?"

"Forget it, Walker." He angled his chin toward the floor. "He's awake."

Bryce stirred, blinking. "What a surprise," he said, his voice rough. "Both of you. Pleasure to see you again, Casey."

Casey grunted.

Sarah nudged Bryce with her foot. "Start talking, or the next one's a shot to the head."

He craned his head to look at her, an arrogant smile crooking his lips. "You don't have it in you to kill me, Sarah. Anyone else, sure, but not me. How did you know I was wearing a vest, anyway?"

She hadn't; that was the point. He'd aimed a gun at her, and she'd shot to kill. Irritated, Sarah raised an eyebrow.

Bryce's mouth fell open and stayed that way. It was not an attractive look.

"I like your style, Walker," Casey said with a grin.

"And I don't give a crap about your approval," Sarah said, staring down at Bryce. "Get him into a chair. And then we'll find out what we need to know."

OoOoOoOoO

The dinner table still held the remnants of what had begun as a festive meal, before everything had gone wrong: Tapered candles burning, half-poured bottles of wine, the apple pie that Casey had been forced to glaze. Now, though, Chuck felt as if even the leaf-themed napkins were mocking him. The remains of the turkey looked like it had been gnawed by a wild beast—which, given Morgan's proclivities, wasn't far from the truth—and the vanilla ice cream Devon had brought to top the pie was melting into a puddle.

Thanksgiving was ruined, and he couldn't figure out if it was his fault, Sarah's, or Bryce's. Maybe all three.

Chuck dipped his finger into a trail of cranberry sauce that led from where Casey had been sitting to the bowl. It looked, he thought, like blood—which made him think about what Casey was probably doing to Bryce right now. Staring at the cranberry sauce made him squirm—but anything would be better than looking at Ellie, whose eyes he could feel drilling into his head.

Silence fell, as thick as the congealing gravy coating the uneaten pieces of turkey on Sarah's abandoned plate.

"So!" Devon said at last, forcing cheer into his voice. "This is awkward. I don't know why, but it is definitely awkward and I feel like I'm missing out on something. Are you two okay?"

Ellie cleared her throat. "Devon, can you give me and my brother a moment?"

"Sure, babe. Don't worry about the dishes. I'll get them later." He pushed back from the table, gave his apple pie one last longing look, and retreated down the hallway toward their bedroom.

Casey was right—the pie did look delicious. Too bad the few bites of food Chuck had managed to eat sat like a stone in his stomach. The thought of consuming anything else made him sick. He wiped his cranberry sauce-stained finger on his napkin and found the courage to meet Ellie's eyes.

Sure enough, she was staring right at him. "Chuck, I'm so confused, I don't even know where to start. How is Bryce alive? What was he doing in your bedroom? How does he know Sarah, and why was Sarah kissing him? Do you have any clue what the hell's going on?"

Her hazel eyes were fixed on him, seeing way too much—just like they always had. He'd never been good at keeping anything from his sister. Drawing a deep breath, he told the truth. "I can honestly say that I'm as confused as you are by what we just witnessed."

"It just doesn't make any sense." Ellie stabbed a lone piece of turkey with her fork. "I was sure Sarah was in love with you. I saw it in her eyes whenever she watched you, when she thought no one else was looking."

The hell with stabbing her turkey; Ellie might as well have stabbed him in the heart. "I don't know," he said, crumpling his napkin. "She obviously doesn't feel that way about me. My guess is that Bryce is actually Bruce, Sarah's ex from D.C. she told me about on our first date." Maybe if he stuck as close to the truth as possible, he'd minimize his chance of contradicting himself later and screwing everything up even further.

"Look, Chuck." Ellie's voice was gentle. "I know you're hurting, and I'm sure you're even more shaken up than I am. I just need you to answer one question."

_Fabulous._ "What?"

"Do you really love her?" Ellie leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table.

Chuck wanted to look away from that penetrating stare, but it had him pinned. He knew the apartment was under surveillance, that whatever he said would likely get back to Sarah—and Casey would antagonize him about it for the rest of his life, however short that turned out to be—but he didn't care. At this point, what did he have to lose?

"More than I've ever loved anyone or anything," he said, speaking clearly, so the camera's microphone would be sure to catch every word.

Tears filled Ellie's eyes. "I'm so sorry, little brother," she said, putting a hand on his arm.

Her sympathy almost undid him. No matter what, Ellie always had his back. She was the only person who had never let him down.

He wasn't going to cry. He wouldn't give whoever was watching that satisfaction.

"Thanks, sis," he said. "Look, I'll try and get some more answers soon, but I think I'm going to go to bed. Would it be really bad if I didn't help you and Devon clean up? You worked so hard on dinner. I'm sorry everything got so screwed up."

The tears in Ellie's eyes overflowed, trickling down her cheeks. "It's not your fault," she said, coming around the table to hug him. "If I don't understand anything else about what happened tonight, I understand that. You're a wonderful guy, Chuck, and I'm not just saying that because I'm your sister. You've got one of the biggest hearts I've ever known. You'd never hurt anyone on purpose. I'm sorry so many terrible things have happened to you. If I could protect you from them, I would. And of course you don't have to worry about cleaning up. Devon and I have got this. You just take care of yourself."

Chuck bowed his head, letting himself relax into Ellie's strength for a moment. She smelled like butter and cinnamon and the shampoo she'd used since Chuck was a kid. Then he straightened and got to his feet. "Maybe we'll figure out some more tomorrow. Right now, I'm just tired and upset." It was the closest he was willing to come to admitting how much Sarah had hurt him.

"I know, Chuck," Ellie said, taking a stack of plates to the kitchen. "Me too. I'll talk to you tomorrow."

"Save Casey a piece of pie," Chuck said, and walked down the hall to his room.

OoOoOoOoO

Sarah cut Bryce loose and re-zip-tied him to the chair that Casey had thoughtfully liberated from his kitchen table set. "Don't try anything," she warned.

Bryce rolled his eyes. "Casey's got a gun to my head. You took my weapon. What am I going to try?"

"You tell me," the NSA agent said, inspecting Sarah's work. "Start talking, or we can just beat it out of you. You choose."

Bryce glared at him. "No, thanks. I'll talk."

"Damn," Casey said, and cracked his knuckles.

"Both of you cut the macho crap." Sarah pointed her gun at Casey, who cocked an eyebrow. "You, stand down." She swiveled the muzzle to face Bryce. "And you, talk or I'll shoot you myself."

Bryce tossed his head, getting the hair out of his eyes. "Fine. The Intersect was a mission. I was recruited by an outfit called Fulcrum. A special-access group inside the CIA."

"You're lying," Sarah said immediately. "We would know that."

"They knew who I was, Sarah. My activation codes, my record. They ordered me to shed my agency contacts and go deep. Only then did I realize it was an internal strike, to download and destroy Intersect. Fulcrum had plans for its intel."

Sarah flicked her eyes to Casey. He was standing stock-still, assessing Bryce the way he'd assess any other subject in interrogation. His impassive expression gave her nothing. "Why should we trust you, Bryce?"

"I didn't mean to hurt you, Sarah." He leaned forward as much as the zip-ties would permit, his eyes sincere. "I didn't know who to trust."

Unbelievable. "Don't you worry about me. I'm more concerned about why you involved Chuck. He's a good guy. Innocent. All he wanted to do was get his degree. You fucked up his life, Bryce. He's not even a person anymore, as far as our government is concerned. He's an asset—government property. He's lucky he's not living in a bunker. It's all your fault. You dragged him into this. Just for that, I should shoot you again."

Bryce tilted his head, regarding her. "Do you care about him, Sarah?"

"That," Sarah said, her face burning, "is none of your business. You've already blown my cover with this assignment by coming here tonight. Give me another reason to shoot you again. I dare you. One more time—why Chuck?"

"I needed a friend who wasn't a spy," Bryce said. "Chuck didn't know anything about Fulcrum or the Intersect or Sand Wall."

"You needed a friend who wasn't a spy to—what? Be your patsy? Get screwed over? You're not helping yourself, Bryce."

"Sand Wall?" Casey said, speaking for the first time in minutes. "There's no such operation."

"There is. I swear."

Sarah studied him. She knew Bryce—his inflections, his tells. She would have sworn he was telling the truth now. But he was an accomplished liar, just like her. And he was lying for his life.

"We need to call this in, Walker," Casey said. "And get Bartowski over here."

Bryce gave Sarah a pained look, as if he actually cared what she thought of him. "I'm not rogue, Sarah. I promise."

"I don't give a shit, you asshole," Sarah said, nudging him with the butt of her gun. "We're going to report this to Beckman and Graham. Then we're going to talk to Chuck. And then we'll see if you're lying. And if you are … your vest won't save you this time."

OoOoOoOoO

"Report, Major," General Beckman said.

Beckman and Graham were on a split screen, talking to Sarah and Casey. Bryce was still tied to his chair, looking annoyed.

Casey straightened, coming to attention. "Ma'am, Bryce Larkin is no longer at large. He showed up at the Bartowski residence looking for Agent Walker and we were able to secure him. He claims he's not rogue, that he was given orders to steal the Intersect and then destroy the facility housing it. An operation Sand Wall. He says he figured out later that it was an internal strike given by a group known as Fulcrum."

"I see. Have you validated his story with the asset, Agent Walker?" Beckman turned her attention to Sarah, who swallowed hard.

"Not yet, ma'am. I'm afraid there is a problem with our cover. The asset's sister saw Agent Larkin and myself in the asset's bedroom."

"Were you in the process of apprehending him?" Beckman said, her lips thinning.

Casey coughed into his hand.

There was no way around it. "I'm afraid to say that when she walked in, Agent Larkin and I were … kissing." Sarah said. Goddamn Bryce. She couldn't see him from where she stood, but she would've bet he was smirking.

"Jesus Christ, Langston, what kind of circus are you running?" Beckman said to Graham, sounding disgusted. "Major Casey, please collect the asset and see if he can corroborate Larkin's story. If his story pans out, we'll need to debrief him and bring him back in. If not—we'll deal with it then."

Major Casey—not Agent Walker. Sarah felt the sting as clearly as if Beckman had slapped her. She stiffened her spine, trying not to shrivel in shame.

"Yes, ma'am. What will be the cover story for the asset's sister on seeing Larkin alive and kissing Agent Walker?" Casey said, somehow managing to keep a straight face.

Graham shot Sarah a disdainful look. It hurt, but not nearly as much as the thought that he and Beckman might reassign her. "I suggest that the asset tell his sister that Larkin is a part of an FBI witness protection program—that he used to be engaged to Walker and wanted to see her one last time before disappearing. The other option is we bunker the asset _and_ his sister and be done with this shit-show."

"But sir—" Sarah protested.

"That will be all, Agent Walker. I'll deal with you later." Graham cut the connection, leaving General Beckman alone on the screen.

"Keep us posted, Major," Beckman said, without sparing Sarah a glance.

The monitor went blank.

OoOoOoOoO

Chuck was lying on his bed, fingers laced behind his head, staring at the ceiling, when someone tapped on his window.

He didn't have the energy to be scared. If it was Bryce, intent on killing him, the dude probably wouldn't knock.

He glanced down at himself. He was wearing a T-shirt that read "Risa: Planet of Pleasure" and his Klingon pajama bottoms. Well, whatever. It wasn't as if he was expecting visitors.

Boosting himself to his feet, he stalked over to the Morgan door and pulled up the blinds to see Casey standing outside his window.

"We need your help," Casey said.

_Unbelievable._ "And we would be…?"

"We, Bartowski. Myself, Walker, and Larkin. As much as I hate to admit it, it's the truth."

"Of course you do," Chuck said, sighing. "Do I have time to change?"

"Nope." Casey folded his arms across his chest.

"Fine," Chuck said, stepping out of the window. "This has been such a great night already. Why not make it even better?"

He followed Casey to his apartment, where he found Bryce zip-tied to a chair and Sarah holding him at gunpoint. "Just another Thursday," Chuck mumbled.

"Hello, Chuck," Bryce said, smiling at him. "I'd shake your hand, but I'm a bit tied up right now."

Casey cleared his throat and Chuck turned to glower at him. "If you say it, I swear to God—"

"I'm a man of few words, Bartowski." The NSA agent shrugged. "Won't waste any more on you."

"Great. Since we're all standing here—what the hell am I supposed to tell Ellie?" Chuck said, doing his best to avoid looking at Sarah. "She's asking a lot of questions."

"Tell her Bryce is part of an FBI witness protection program," Sarah said, not taking her eyes from Larkin. "That I was engaged to him before, and he wanted to see me one last time before he disappeared."

"You want me to lie to my sister about all this?" Chuck gestured between Sarah and Bryce. "What the hell is wrong with you people? Ellie's the only person who's stood by me. Who hasn't screwed me over. What's next? You want my firstborn child too?"

A peculiar expression flashed across Sarah's face, and for a horrible second Chuck wondered if he was right—if any kids he ever had would be part of this whole nightmare. Not like he was in danger of having kids, given that he couldn't manage to hang onto a girlfriend without Bryce Larkin sweeping her off her feet. "I want to tell Ellie the truth. Get her clearance. Read her in. Do whatever you have to do. Ellie's my only family. She can keep her mouth shut."

"No," Casey said flatly.

"That's it? Just _no_? I've got the Intersect in my brain, in case you've forgotten. You call me the asset for a reason. Doesn't it matter what I want?"

"No. I'm sorry, Chuck." Sarah's voice was sad, as if she wished things could be different.

Well, if she wanted things to be different, she shouldn't have kissed his personal Judas.

"Chuck," Casey said, and the unexpected use of his first name brought Chuck's head up. "Larkin said his mission to steal, then destroy the Intersect was code-named Sand Wall."

Just like that, Chuck flashed. Images rippled by, one after the other. A computer screen, with the CIA's seal and 'Top Secret.' Another with "Operation Sand Wall: Intersect" displayed on it in capital letters. Schematics. Buildings. Enough for Chuck to know Bryce was telling the truth.

"Sand Wall … yep, that was the name of the Intersect mission. I think he's actually telling the truth for once." He ran his hands through his hair. "I don't get it, Bryce. How are you alive? You're like a freaking cockroach."

"For once," Casey said, placing a heavy hand on Chuck's shoulder, "I agree with you."

"I don't know how they did it, if that's what you're asking," Bryce said. "They probably used one of the European clinics. I don't remember it."

"But you know _why_ they did it?" Sarah said, trying to catch Chuck's eye. Sedulously, he avoided her, looking instead at the guy who'd made a habit of wrecking his life.

"Yeah. You know the first part already. I downloaded the Intersect and blew up the computer, raced out of the DNI. Then I ran into you, Casey." He nodded at the NSA agent.

"I recall," Casey said. "And yet here you sit."

Bryce shrugged, as much as he could while zip-tied to the chair. "So I'm on the ground. No white light. Just Casey staring down at me. And then they brought me back, but they weren't trying to save me. This was a Fulcrum team. They wanted something."

"Clearly," Sarah said with barely restrained patience. "But what?"

"I came to in the ambulance, with that asshole Tommy Delgado looming over me. He said, 'Bryce, where are the Intersect files? What happened to the Intersect? Tell me, or I let you die again_._' Let me just say that it's not so easy to concentrate with a massive chest wound and a thug in your face, but I managed it." He winked at Sarah, who looked away. "I told Delgado I'd seen the files. That they were inside me. And so he told his minions to do whatever it took to save me."

"Hold up." Chuck took a step back. "Fulcrum thinks you're the Intersect?"

"They brought me back to take it out of me. Which, obviously, isn't gonna work out so well, since …" He gestured in Chuck's direction. "That's why I need your help."

"We're gonna help you?" Casey said. "Logical. I mean, why wouldn't we, after all the assistance you've rendered us. Bartowski, aren't you motivated to help Larkin here?"

Bryce shifted his weight, easing the bite of the zip-ties. "I need to turn myself in to the CIA. But Fulcrum has operatives in every agency. I need to know that I'm being handed over to the real CIA."

"I guess I can do that," Chuck said with a familiar feeling of encroaching doom. "I can be there at the transfer. If I flash, they're Fulcrum. If not, you're on your way home." Wherever that was, it surely wouldn't be in Burbank, California.

Sarah glanced away from her captive, giving Chuck the gorgeous smile that devastated him every time. It still did, even though a few hours ago, she'd been betraying him in one of the worst ways he could think of. "That should work. Smart, Chuck."

"Yeah, well, it's been known to happen. I would've graduated with honors from Stanford, if it wasn't for Dr. Sabotage over here." He scowled at Bryce. "Make no mistake, you've been on my shit list for years and what happened tonight hasn't improved my opinion of you. But just because you choose to place your behavior at the lowest common denominator doesn't mean I have to do the same. Casey might want to kill you. I just want you to go away, and stay there."

Bryce bowed his head. "I really am sorry."

"Save your breath. I don't want your apologies. Why would I believe them? But I don't want to be responsible for letting you die, either." He turned to face Casey. "Just tell me what you need."

"A place the transfer can go down," Casey said, looking at Chuck with an expression he had never seen on the NSA agent's face before. He thought maybe it was respect. "A public place, a lot of people."

Chuck sighed. "A public spot? Lots of witnesses? I know a place."

* * *

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	3. Love & War

Chapter Three … in which life takes an unexpected turn, Chuck's confession comes to light, and Sarah takes the biggest risk of all.

This chapter ends the Nemesis arc. We will be getting further away from canon as we progress. Change one thing and all the '_rules_' are out the window.

Disclaimer: We don't own Chuck…

* * *

**Chapter 3: Love & War**

It was Black Friday at the Buy More, and Chuck was far more terrified of the handoff that was about to go down than the hundreds of salivating shoppers who had just descended on the store—which was saying something. A middle-aged woman with a voracious gleam in her eye had almost taken out Lester with her handbag, sending him scurrying for cover beneath the Nerd Herd desk, and a red-eyed, whiny teenager had just towed her father through the iPhone section so fast, the guy smacked head-first into the endcap, sending OtterBoxes skittering to the floor.

"So appliances are over there," Chuck said to a passing customer. "All right? And electronics, you're already here."

Only half his attention was focused on the store. The rest was diverted to his earwig, through which Sarah had just announced, "We're entering the store. The CIA pickup should be here in two minutes."

_Two minutes_. Chuck took a deep breath and tried to focus. _All I have to do is walk by them, and then maybe flash. Nothing else. Then it's back to insane Black Friday at the Buy More, no harm, no foul_.

"Excuse me," a woman said, stopping in front of Chuck. "I'm just looking for camera bags."

Chuck scrambled for a sense of normalcy. "Yeah, cameras are uh, just over here. So if you wanna look…" His voice trailed off. Over the woman's shoulder, he caught a glimpse of the one thing he'd hoped to avoid at all costs: Morgan approaching Bryce as the agent lingered by the TV display, an unmistakable look of recognition on his oldest friend's face. "Excuse me," he said, and fled, hoping to stave off the inevitable.

Crap. Crap, crap, crap. Morgan had actually approached Bryce and was speaking to him. Chuck froze in horror at the end of the aisle, helpless. His eyes met Sarah's, who looked equally horrified.

Staring at her was like looking into the sun. He averted his gaze, only to make eye contact with a prowling Casey, who—inexplicably—winked.

Chuck was trying to decide if a wink from Casey was actually some kind of secret code when Sarah's voice sounded in his earwig. "The CIA pickup is here. Chuck, do your pass."

His pass. Right. He made his feet move, even though they felt like they were stuck to the showroom's floor. Coming toward him were two grim guys in suits, looking as out of place at Black Friday at the Buy More as a Klingon commander at a square dance.

"Hi," Chuck said inanely as he passed them. "Welcome to Buy More."

The men ignored him, which wasn't a surprise—in his experience, government agents weren't exactly the epitome of good manners—but that was it. No visions, no Intel from the Intersect. "Nothing happened," he whispered into his watch, feeling like an idiot. "There were no flashes. So the CIA guys are legit."

No one answered him, but he knew they'd heard. Moved by some obscure motivation to lay eyes on Bryce one last time, he found his way over to the TV display. Bryce was still standing there, gaze fixed on the screens, with Sarah just a few feet away. Aware of her gaze on his back, Chuck walked up to Bryce and stood in silence.

"These HD screens almost look like the real thing," Bryce said, his voice as casual as if the past few years—hell, the past few days—had never happened.

"Yeah, I guess they do," Chuck said, his voice flat.

"You know, I didn't mean to offend you last night. About living with your sister. I was told about your team, what you've done together."

Chuck didn't know whether to be amused or pissed off by the idea that, of all the things that had taken place yesterday, that was the one for which Bryce found the need to apologize. "And you're still the super spy, right?" he said, sarcasm weighting his voice.

"That's nothing." For once, Bryce sounded sincere. "I got one friend in this world. You got a home and a store full of them."

"One friend." Chuck stared at him. "You mean me?"

Bryce lifted one shoulder and let it fall. "You didn't have to do what you did today, Chuck. You could've just let me take my chances. After everything, you're still the decent guy you've always been."

Rage bubbled in Chuck's stomach. "I think you're being a bit generous with your math there, Bryce. Friends don't do what you've done to me. All things considered, I think I'd rather take my chances with Fulcrum." Lifting his head, he stared straight into Bryce's eyes, letting the full weight of his contempt show. To his shock, the CIA agent flinched.

"I'm taking him in, Chuck. You stay here," Sarah said, coming up next to the two of them.

"Right. Stay in the store, Chuck," Chuck muttered, turning away.

Sarah put her hand on his arm, and it was all he could do not to pull away. Since the day he'd met her, all he'd wanted was to be close to her. A casual touch from Sarah meant more than all the intimacy he'd shared with Jill—no matter how much he'd cared about the girl he'd meant to marry. But now, the feel of Sarah's hand on his skin conveyed nothing but betrayal and loss. Worse still, he couldn't help but feel she was patronizing him.

"It's not like that, Chuck," she said, pitched low. "I just need you to be safe. When I get back, I think we should talk—if you'll listen."

He didn't trust his voice. "Sure," he said, his back to them, and stepped away. When he turned around again, they were gone.

OoOoOoOoO

Sitting in the back of the CIA transfer car, a sudden turn sent Bryce's shoulder knocking into Sarah's. He took the opportunity to slide closer to her.

"Sarah? Are we good?

Annoyed, Sarah slid away, claiming her space. "Yeah, we're clear," she said, glancing over her shoulder to check for a tail.

"No," Bryce said, giving her the same come-hither expression he'd used so many times in the past. "Us."

Sarah shot him an incredulous look. "Are you kidding me right now?"

"Come back with me," he said, leaning toward her.

He'd blown her cover, destroyed her relationship with Chuck, and now he had the gall to make a pass at her—again? _"__Unbelievable._ Wow. I'm at a total loss for words."

"You were never good at this," he said, misunderstanding her. "The saying-your-feelings part."

Sarah felt anger heating her cheeks. "Really? Okay, here goes, Bryce. I _feel _you're a real son-of-a—"

Before she could finish her sentence, a car smacked into theirs, sending them careening into the center lane. Sarah had just enough time to regret being unable to finish her sentence when her world went black.

In a haze, she came to consciousness to find herself lying on the asphalt, Bryce by her side. She blinked, and saw Bryce looking back at her. All hints of his playful mannerisms had vanished. This was her former partner—cold, in command, and all business.

A strange man stood a few feet away, his back to them. **"**It's done," he said into his phone. "We'll need about two minutes to broom the area."

To Sarah, this meant only one thing—the man was a lackey, reporting to someone else in charge. He wasn't alone, either; another man was casing the area, making sure he and his partner weren't interrupted when they carried out whatever they intended to do. Both had their backs to Sarah and Bryce.

Without a word, Sarah and Bryce leapt to their feet. When the henchmen turned back around to check on their captives, it was too late. In synchrony, Sarah and Bryce disposed of both men with a vengeance. Panting, they stood next to the wreckage of the CIA car.

"Where is he?" Bryce said, concern stamped clear on his face.

"Who?" Sarah stared down at the two men at their feet.

"Their boss," he said. "Tommy."

Their eyes met, for once in perfect understanding. If Delgado wasn't here—and if he'd sent these two goons to take her and Bryce out—there was only one place he could be.

"Chuck!" Sarah said in horror, leaping into the driver's seat of the thugs' abandoned van and tearing off toward the Buy More with Bryce in tow.

OoOoOoOoO

Chuck had maneuvered his way behind the Nerd Herd counter and was doing his best to impersonate a normal human being when someone slammed both hands down on the countertop. "Excuse me. Can I get some service?"

Chuck looked up—straight into the scarred face of Tommy Delgado, the man who'd watched Bryce abduct him at syringe-point.

"You're Charles Bartowski, aren't you?" Delgado said. "We met the other day."

"Did we?" Chuck said, feigning ignorance. Whatever Delgado's presence here meant, it couldn't be good. "How can I help you?"

"I'm looking for a computer. You might be familiar with this one. It was called the Intersect." He leaned forward, hands braced on the counter, and looked Chuck in the eye. "You don't seem to understand the situation, Charles. Think these witnesses are a guarantee that nothing's gonna happen to you? You couldn't be more wrong."

Panic flooded Chuck's veins. He glanced left and right, looking for Casey, but all he saw were maniacal shoppers, hell-bent on acquiring a bargain.

Maybe if he played for time, Casey would emerge—or Bryce and Sarah would come back to save him. "Um, I I am so slammed right now," he said, gesturing at the crowded store. "It's really busy. So I should get back to work."

Delgado sighed, as if having to put up with Chuck's antics was more than he could stand. "My team reacquired Bryce Larkin and Sarah Walker five minutes ago. I have seven trained killers stationed throughout the store. If you look over there, you can also see that my men have neutralized Mr. Casey."

With a feeling of dread, Chuck turned. Casey was being followed by two Fulcrum agents, one of whom had a gun pointed at his back. The NSA agent looked pissed off—and immobilized.

"See, here's the thing, Charles," Delgado said. "Nothing stops me from fulfilling my orders. Innocents, civilians. If you make me, I'll execute every last person in this place."

Looking into those empty eyes, Chuck believed him. Surrendering, he came out from behind the counter and walked toward the front of the store, Delgado right behind him.

They hadn't gotten very far when Jeff came rushing toward them, panic stamped on every inch of his face. "Chuck, the registers are down." He stared up at Chuck, face white with horror. "I can't get them back up. What should I do?"

"Say more than one word," Delgado hissed into Chuck's ear, "and I'll kill him right here."

Given the circumstances, there was only one thing to say. "Pineapple," Chuck told Jeff, who looked more terrified than ever.

Delgado made an annoyed noise, shoving Chuck forward—but Jeff was already gone, racing off to find Morgan. Chuck could only pray this would work.

"Let's go," Delgado said, prodding Chuck in the back.

Out of the corner of Chuck's eye, he could see Jeff expostulating with Morgan, who was standing on a ladder. Jeff seemed to be insisting on something; Morgan was arguing with him, knowing that 'pineapple' was only meant to be used in dire situations when the shit had already hit the fan and the store needed to be cleared out in a hurry. Whatever Jeff said next made an impression. Morgan dropped the box in his arms, climbed down the ladder, and grabbed a bullhorn.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we have an emergency," Morgan said, sounding more official than Chuck had ever heard him. "I need everyone to leave the store in an orderly fashion. Anna, pineapple."

To Chuck's amazement, Anna actually obliged, pulling the fire alarm. The store erupted in mayhem, giving Casey the perfect distraction to take out the two henchmen covering him and allowing Chuck to escape Delgado's grip. Shoppers stampeded toward the door, leaving only Chuck, Casey, and the eight Fulcrum agents behind.

OoOoOoOoO

Somehow, Casey located Chuck in the chaos of the Buy More. He threw Chuck over his shoulder in a fireman's carry and hustled him into the home theater room. Dumping Chuck onto the floor, he grabbed his cell phone and barked into it, "Code Black. Hostiles in the Buy More. I need a containment team right away."

He bent down to the coffee table and yanked open a compartment, revealing a stash of guns and ammunition. Chuck's eyes widened. "Are you kidding me? Some kid could find this."

Through the glass of the theater room, Chuck could see Tommy Delgado giving orders to his henchmen at the front of the store. Whatever the guy was saying, it couldn't be good.

"Stay down, Chuck," Casey said, sounding cheerful. "This is when the shooting starts."

"Right—right now?"

It was a rhetorical question. Bullets began flying through the glass of the theater room, and Chuck fell to the floor, seeking cover as best he could.

Through the limited field of vision available to him, he saw Bryce and Sarah come back into the store. No matter how upset he was with Sarah for what she'd done, relief rushed through him at seeing her alive.

Bryce and Sarah didn't speak. They didn't have to. Wordless, they fought side by side and back to back, taking out one Fulcrum agent after another. If Chuck hadn't been so terrified, he would have found it to be a thing of beauty.

"Wow," he muttered, seeing the last guy fall. "They really are great." Great, in a way with which he could never compete. If this was the type of man Sarah wanted, he didn't have a chance.

"Come on, Chuck." Seizing the opportunity, Casey grabbed Chuck by the collar and started dragging him out of the theater room into the store.

Maybe this wasn't the time or place to complain, but being dragged around like a sack of potatoes was losing its appeal. "I'm getting sick and tired of getting hauled around by you all the time," he snapped at Casey as they went through the doorway—just in time for Delgado to hit Casey in the face with the butt of his gun, knocking him out cold.

"Great, here we go again," Chuck thought as Delgado wrapped his arm around Chuck's chest and dragged him into the Buy More, his gun pressed to the back of Chuck's neck.

OoOoOoOoO

Sarah and Bryce stood over a pile of the men they'd knocked out, breathing hard.

"Where's Chuck?" Sarah said as soon as she could speak.

"Over here," Tommy Delgado said, his tone wry. Swiveling, Sarah saw Chuck restrained by Delgado at gunpoint—the very scenario she'd feared. Where the hell was Casey?

Both Bryce and Sarah turned to point their guns at Delgado, whose body was mostly concealed behind Chuck's. "Let him go. Now," Sarah said.

Delgado had the audacity to laugh. "Does this look like my first time?"

"Isn't it somebody else's turn to be the human shield?" Chuck said, sounding aggravated.

Even in extremis, Chuck's sense of humor hadn't left him. It almost made Sarah smile despite herself.

Bryce inched forward, and Tommy backed away, his arm tightening across Chuck's chest. "Stay there, Bryce."

The agent tilted his head. "You all right, Chuck?"

Under the circumstances, Sarah thought this was a fairly absurd question. Based on Chuck's incredulous response—"Does it look like I'm all right?"—she had the distinct sense Chuck agreed.

"I need to ask you something," Bryce went on, as if they were at a social function rather than in the throes of a hostage situation.

"Shoot," Chuck said. Immediately regretting his choice of words, he turned his head to look at Tommy Delgado. "Not you, please."

Bryce opened his mouth to speak, but what came out was more of that garbled language he and Chuck had spoken in the interrogation room. Really, Sarah thought, was this the time?

Chuck seemed to understand, though. He answered Bryce in the same language, a look of trepidation on his face.

"Sorry, Chuck," Bryce said with what Sarah would have sworn was real regret. And then, to Sarah's shock, he shot Chuck in the chest.

As Sarah watched Chuck fall, horrified, Casey stepped from a side aisle. "Hi," he said, grinning, and knocked Tommy out with his gun.

At that point, Sarah couldn't have cared less whether Tommy Delgado was alive, mortally wounded, or food for the fishes. She knelt by Chuck's side, pressing a hand to his chest. "Oh my God, no, no, no. Bryce, what have you done?"

"Ask him," Bryce said, shrugging.

Sarah ignored her ex-partner. "Chuck. Hi, Chuck, Chuck. Chuck, come on. Wake up. Come on, baby. Hey."

Chuck coughed, stirring. "Yes," he said to Bryce. "Yes, I am wearing a vest. That stings a little bit, by the way."

Sarah's body shook with relief, and she had to fight the urge to kiss him then and there—which definitely wouldn't have been appropriate. "Thank God," she muttered, and got an arm under Chuck's elbow, helping him stand.

OoOoOoOoO

The store was wrecked, but that wasn't Sarah or Bryce's problem. They stood side by side in the home theater room, their spines at attention, reporting to Graham on the big-screen TV. Fear thrummed through Sarah. Chuck was alive; Delgado was neutralized; Bryce was back in the fold; Delgado's thugs were dead or captured. Still, that didn't mean anything good was about to happen.

"Good afternoon, Director," Bryce said when the feed activated—as calm and collected as he'd always been.

"Reporting as ordered, sir," Sarah said—a comment that earned her a disdainful look from Graham.

The Director turned to Bryce. "Agent Larkin, I have reviewed your report and I feel that since Fulcrum thinks you are in possession of the Intersect, we have an opportunity to lure them out of hiding in our agencies and expose their operatives. We've gotten word that they are planning to try and identify more of our agents, and turn them to their cause. Exposing this plan will be your, and Agent Walker's, primary mission."

The fear that had been thrumming through Sarah's body rose into her throat, threatening to choke her. "I'm being reassigned? … Please, sir, if I could just explain—"

Graham's mouth compressed into a thin line, lips seamed so tightly, they were white. **"**That is quite enough from you, _Agent_ Walker. You should be grateful that I haven't recalled you back to Langley for a permanent desk job after blowing your cover. The fact that I can resume your previous partnership with Agent Larkin was your only saving grace. Your success record as the Anderson's was hard to ignore. Your flight leaves tonight."

"We _are_ quite the team," Bryce said, giving Sarah a grin just this side of lascivious.

"And I expect you both to get me results. Are we clear, Agents?"

"Yes, sir," Bryce said, snapping back to attention.

"Yes, sir," Sarah echoed, far more tentatively.

Graham cut the feed and the screen went blank.

"Shit, shit, shit!" Sarah said, running her hands through her hair. "Damn it, Bryce."

"Me?" he said innocently, walking toward the entrance to the Buy More, where Chuck and Casey waited for them. "What did I do?"

What _hadn't _he done, was a better question. But they didn't have time for Sarah to answer, so she simply followed him back into the store in silence.

OoOoOoOoO

The store was a disaster zone. Boxes knocked over, shelves capsized, televisions shattered. In his stunned condition, all Chuck could think about was how they would ever get it back to normal again.

"What are we going to do?" he said, envisioning an afternoon spent with brooms, mops, and dustpans. Obviously they had bigger problems, but at least this was something he could focus on fixing.

Casey sighed. "Relax, Chuck. These are NSA cleaners. They'll have Buy More back to normal in a jiffy."

Chuck didn't know what was weirder—hearing Casey use the word 'jiffy' or imagining the NSA agents wielding 409 and paper towels as they would their weapons. He glanced toward the home theater room, finding the courage to voice what was really troubling him. "What's happening with Sarah and Bryce?"

"They're giving their report to Graham and probably getting new orders. We should know in a minute. Hang tight."

"New orders?" Chuck said. "But—"

Before he could finish his sentence, Bryce and Sarah came out, Bryce in front looking energized and Sarah with her head down. Chuck couldn't remember seeing her look so defeated.

"It'd appear we have a new assignment," Bryce said, as confidently as if he hadn't just been accused of being a rogue agent and then resurrected from the dead.

"We?" Chuck said before he could stop himself. "Together?" His eyes shifted to Sarah. "You've been reassigned?"

She couldn't hold his gaze. Bryce was the one who answered.

"Yes, they want us to go after Fulcrum. Off the radar."

From behind Chuck, Casey gave a wistful sigh. "Oh, sounds like heaven."

"I don't understand," Chuck said, even though he was all too afraid he did. "What does that mean?"

"It means Bryce Larkin is dead," Bryce said, with the biggest smirk Chuck had ever seen on his face. "And he's going to stay that way this time." He held out his hand. "Goodbye, Chuck."

At a loss for words, Chuck turned toward Casey, ignoring Bryce. "Can you take me home now?"

The NSA agent shrugged. "Sure. The fun part's already over."

Chuck hated to show any vulnerability in front of Bryce, but if this was the last time he'd ever see Sarah, what choice did he have? "Goodbye, Sarah," he said, willing his voice to stay level. "Thanks for always being there to save my ass. Please be safe out there."

"Bye, Chuck," Sarah whispered.

Steeling himself, Chuck gave her one final look, and turned to go.

OoOoOoOoO

Sarah made her way back to her hotel on autopilot. Her world was spinning like a Tilt-a-Whirl. She'd been reassigned. Her biggest fears had crashed down on her and she was close to suffocating. Her hands shook, she could hardly swallow, and her vision blurred. How had she allowed things to get so messed up? She wasn't going to be able to protect Chuck anymore, and being reassigned as Bryce's partner was the final blow. She'd seen the devastation in Chuck's eyes when he left the Buy More and it was wrecking her from head to toe. Was this all she was now—Graham's enforcer and accomplice who'd conspired to destroy a wonderful man's beautiful heart? A man who captivated her in every possible way. A man she loved. She'd been such a coward for running from him all these months and now it was too late. Maybe she didn't deserve the life he offered. Her past was tainted. She'd spilled too much blood to ever atone for.

Her stomach revolted and she barely made it to the bathroom before she lost her lunch. When she emerged, she stared at herself in the mirror. A spy. That's all she saw. Without Chuck to guide her into the light, she knew that's all she'd ever be.

She brushed her teeth and washed her face in an effort to pull herself together. Checking the time, she swallowed hard, made her way over to her suitcase, and started packing. Each movement was slower than usual, as if her limbs were weighted down by some kind of super-gravity.

As she zipped her suitcase, her cell phone chirped, signaling an incoming text message. To her surprise, the message was from Casey, telling her to check her email. Opening her laptop, she logged in.

The subject line read 'Bartowski Household Surveillance.' Bewildered, she opened the email. Inside, Casey had written, "A going-away present. Take care of yourself, partner. You're the best one I ever had." As she examined the email more closely, she realized he'd attached an mp4 file. What the hell?

She double-clicked the file. It opened and began to play. Holding her breath, she saw footage of Ellie and Chuck sitting at their dining room table.

Turning up the sound on her laptop, she heard Ellie peppering Chuck with questions about Sarah and Bryce that she knew he couldn't answer without lying. She wrapped her arms around herself, trying to contain the guilt she felt at putting both of them in this position.

The more she listened, the worse it got. Chuck could have thrown her under the bus, but he hadn't. He'd maintained as much of their cover as he could, everything that she herself hadn't completely blown. He sounded so defeated when he confessed that Sarah didn't love him.

Her heart felt like it was shattering. Was this some kind of sadistic joke Casey was playing on her? Unable to stand any more, she reached up to end the recording just as Ellie asked, "Do you really love her?"

Sarah froze, her heart thudding. Chuck should hate her for everything she'd put him through. Her finger poised above the 'pause' button, she gathered the strength to hear what he had to say.

When Chuck spoke, it was loud and clear as if he was speaking to her directly. "More than I've ever loved anyone or anything," he said.

The words set Sarah's body on fire, a conflagration that burned her to her bones. He loved her. He _still _loved her. How was that even possible?

He was such a gift and she'd thrown it all away. What was she going to do now? What could she do?

She played the recording over and over, memorizing every word. When she was done, she wrote back to Casey, letting him know she felt the same way about him—for sure, he'd been a better partner than Bryce—and to please take care of Chuck.

Tears flowing freely down her face, she got up to put her laptop away. She was wiping her face with the back of her hand, staring out the window, when her desk phone rang.

She didn't have to answer to know who it was. Bryce was calling. Anyone else would use her cell phone.

_Ring_.

She stared at the phone, debating whether to answer. She knew what he wanted. What could she say?

_Ring_.

She could pick up the phone, say exactly what he expected, and be the good little CIA agent she'd been since Graham had found her in the woods all those years ago. Or she could take a different route entirely.

_Ring_.

If only it was Chuck at the other end of the line. Then again, what could she possibly say to him that would fix this?

_Ring.  
_

An idea began to dawn on her. A wonderful, terrible, impossible idea.

_Ring_.

Sarah knew what she had to do.

OoOoOoOoO

Slumped on the couch in his living room, Chuck poked at the turkey sandwich he'd put together from Thanksgiving leftovers—which there'd been a lot of, thanks to everyone's precipitous departures. Normally Thanksgiving leftovers were his favorite—he had a particular weakness for adding cranberry sauce to his sandwiches—but right now the food looked completely unappetizing.

"Oh, man. This is great," Morgan said, slathering more mayonnaise on his sandwich. "Right? Two buddies, couple of cold turkey sandwiches and all the mayo you could want…" His voice trailed off when he glanced over at Chuck. "You all right? Still thinking about Sarah? I can't believe she did that to you. And with Bryce Freakin' Larkin—man, I swear I think he was the dude I saw in the Buy More today. What the hell would he be doing there, though? Wait, didn't I see Sarah there too?"

"I don't think so," Chuck said, sliding further down on the couch cushion. "Either way, he's probably long gone by now, along with Sarah."

"You okay, though?" Morgan had stopped, sandwich halfway to his mouth, and was regarding Chuck with concern. "You look awful, man. If you want to talk—"

Even if Chuck had wanted to talk to Morgan about his feelings, he had no idea what he'd say. He shook his head, staring morosely at his plate.

Morgan took a giant bite of his sandwich, just as a knock sounded on the apartment door. Heaving himself to his feet, Chuck went to answer it.

Sarah stood on the other side, fidgeting with the strap of her purse, looking more uncomfortable than Chuck had ever seen her. "Hi, Chuck," she said, glancing at the ground. "Can we talk?"

For a second Chuck just stared at her, stunned. He hadn't expected to see her again, much less on his own doorstep, given the way Ellie had kicked her out and insisted she never come back. "Um, sure, I guess," he said, glancing over his shoulder at Ellie, who was sitting with Devon at the dining room table. "Give me a second to grab a jacket and I'll meet you outside."

He closed the door, leaving her standing there, and walked to his room. Unfortunately, this meant he had to pass Ellie and Devon, who were demolishing what was left of the apple pie. "Who was that?" Ellie said, looking up as Chuck went by.

Great. Why couldn't Sarah have just called him, rather than showing up at his front door and potentially causing WWIII? "It's, um, Sarah," he said, endeavoring to look nonchalant. "She wants to talk about something."

Ellie dropped her fork onto her plate and half-rose from her seat, restrained by Devon's hand on her arm. "Wow, she's got some nerve."

_If you only knew, _Chuck wanted to say. Instead, he managed a half-hearted smile. "Don't worry, sis. I can handle it. I might even get some of those answers we were hoping for."

Shrugging off Devon's touch, Ellie sank back down into her seat, eyes still fixed on her brother. "Just be careful, Chuck. I know you. You forgive too easily. What she did—not to mention who she did it with—was unforgivable. I can't imagine what kind of excuse she'd have to come up with to make it worth even listening to her."

Morgan was watching the entire exchange with wide eyes. "I agree with Ellie," he said. "I liked Sarah, Chuck. But you deserve better than what she did to you."

"Thanks, little buddy," Chuck said. "I'll be back in a minute."

Leaving all three of them behind, he stepped into his room, shut his door behind him, grabbed a jacket, and clambered out the window.

Sarah was waiting for him by the fountain. The air smelled of sage and brickellbush, giving him the deceptively pleasant scent of cookies and stuffing—much like Thanksgiving had, before It All Went to Hell.

"Hey," she said when she saw him. She was wearing a blue scoop-neck T-shirt and the jeans he'd always loved the most—form-fitting but not tight, giving him the sense of what Sarah might have looked like if the CIA hadn't gotten their hands on her and molded her into the perfect assassin. The sight of her made his heart hurt, and he steeled his face to hide it. "I wasn't sure you'd come."

He shrugged, expressionless. "I said I would."

"Is it all right with you if we go for a walk?" she said, her eyes flicking up toward one of the hidden cameras that was part of the courtyard surveillance.

"After you," Chuck said with a familiar feeling of resignation, gesturing toward the front entrance of the complex.

OoOoOoOoO

They walked down the street until they got to the park. It looked different at night, ominous somehow. The last time they'd come here, a couple weeks ago, some teens had been tossing a Frisbee on the lawn that sprawled in front of the playground. Near the picnic tables, a couple in their late twenties had sat on a blanket on the grass, sharing lunch. A little boy had chased a beagle around the blanket, clutching a chocolate ice cream cone in one hand and the dog's leash in the other.

Remembering them, Sarah's chest ached. That crack Chuck had made about wanting his firstborn child—until she'd held that baby in Budapest, she'd never felt anything close to a surge of maternal instinct, had never imagined that motherhood might even be possible for her. Certainly the idea of having a child with Bryce had been laughable. But with Chuck—a baby with his big brown eyes and gentle heart, his whip-smart intellect and wicked sense of humor—it scared the hell out of her, but she could picture it. Could picture _them_, holding hands on a blanket in the park while their adorable son got tangled up in their beagle's leash and went tumbling to the ground, sacrificing his ice cream cone in the process.

Tonight, the park was deserted, the only sounds the wind rustling through the cottonwood trees and the creak of the empty swings. Silently, they made their way over to the swings and sat down. Sarah ran through a range of conversation starters—_Chuck, forgive me; Chuck, I made a mistake; Chuck, I can explain—_but each sounded more forced than the next and she wound up staring at the ground instead, watching the dry leaves blow between her feet.

"So, Sarah," Chuck said at last, "what are you doing here? I thought you'd be off with Bryce by now. Sipping Mai Tais in Jakarta, or assassinating Afghani warlords, or whatever it is you kids do for fun."

The bitterness in his voice made her grimace. "I—well, I—" Dammit, she was stammering, which she never did. "I had a whole speech I was planning to say to you. I rehearsed it on the way over here. You know I'm not good at this sort of thing."

"So, speak," Chuck said, tracing a design in the dirt with the toe of his Converse.

She opened her mouth again to try, but all that came out was, "My plane leaves in a couple hours."

"Thank you for letting me know. I'm glad you came to say goodbye. Surprised, but glad."

Sarah tugged her hair out of her ponytail in frustration, letting it fall around her shoulders. "That's not why I'm here. I need to apologize."

The blank expression on his face—a simulacrum of Casey's—nearly broke her heart. In the dim sodium lighting, she saw him grip the chains of the swing so tightly his knuckles whitened. "For what? You don't owe me anything."

Her words came spilling out before she could stop them, without hesitation or pausing to count the cost. "I do, Chuck. I need to apologize for everything. How I've treated you since we met, how I kept pushing you away, how I've ignored my feelings for you because they scared me, and how I was stupid enough to kiss Bryce back last night, when he's not the man I wanted to be kissing. And now I'm being reassigned because of that stupid mistake. I've hurt you, placed you in more danger, made a huge mess of things, and I don't know how to fix it. The worst part is knowing I've lost your trust. I want to try and make things right between us … if you'll give 'us' a chance?"

Silence fell.

Sarah had faced down crime lords, assassinated gangsters, and gone hand to hand with some of the toughest criminals in the world. As a child, she'd repeatedly placed herself in the path of oncoming cars to help her father pull off his cons. Still, nothing she'd ever done was as terrifying as saying these words to Chuck. She was glad it was dark, because she couldn't find the courage to look at his face.

Heart pounding, she gripped the chains until they bit into her palms and pushed her feet off the ground to move the swing, the breeze cooling her heated face. What if she'd made a terrible mistake? What if he didn't feel the same way—or if he'd felt that way before, but couldn't forgive her for what she'd done? What if her fear and stupidity had cost her the only man she'd ever loved?

She felt Chuck grab the chain of her swing, stilling it. "Look at me," he said.

Slowly, she turned to face him. In the dim light, his eyes were shadowed, his expression inscrutable.

"A few weeks ago," he said, "I asked you if this—us—had any kind of future. You were under the influence of truth serum, Sarah. And you told me our relationship had no chance of going anywhere. What am I supposed to think?"

Sarah sighed. "Chuck, I'm trained to resist sodium pentothal. I lied, and I'm so sorry for that as well."

His eyes widened. She could see the moonlight reflected in their depths. For the first time since she'd showed up on his doorstep tonight, his voice sounded uncertain. "I'm not sure what you're trying to say to me right now. What exactly is it that you want, Sarah?"

What did she _want_? The question was too big. She thought of kissing Chuck again, the way she had in front of the capsule they'd thought was a bomb. Of the way he'd looked at her when it turned out they hadn't died after all—a dazed, joyful expression that pierced straight through her, because it so closely mimicked the way she felt inside. Of what it would be like to never see him again, to pretend that her feelings for him didn't matter. She thought it might break her in a way that could never be fixed.

"Chuck, listen," she said at last. "I'm scared of what might happen to you if I'm not around. Graham's made some not-so-veiled threats against you and Ellie. They're rebuilding the Intersect, and when it's complete, there's no telling what he and Beckman might do. It would kill me if anything happened to you or your family. What I'm saying, Chuck, is … maybe we should run."

Chuck's mouth fell open. She'd never seen him look so shocked. "Wha… What?"

"You and me," Sarah said, leaning toward him. "We go now and we never look back. I have some money saved up. I'd get us new identities, create an escape route. I want to be a real person again, Chuck. With you. Will you run away with me?

Chuck's mouth opened and closed several times, like a landed fish. "Is this a joke?" he said at last. "Some kind of game?"

"I've never been more serious in my life." Sarah's voice shook. "I'm not making excuses for what I did, but it made me realize—I hate what I've become. I feel hollow inside, like all my life I've been someone else's pet project. First my dad's, then the Farm's, now this whole mess. The only time I feel real—the only time I feel like myself, like I even have a clue who that person might be—is when I'm with you. I know I'm supposed to be the one protecting you, but, Chuck—you make me feel safe."

Her voice cracked on the last word, and her eyes dropped to the ground. Sarah Walker, Ice Queen and assassin, admitting that a computer geek who'd never even fired a gun made her feel taken care of. She'd sworn she'd never need anyone. That she'd look after herself. Love was a weakness. She did her job, never got attached, and got out. And now this. What if she was going about this all wrong? What if he laughed at her?

"Forget it," she said, pushing off the swing to stand. "I shouldn't have said anything. It was stupid. I'll just—I'll go."

"No," Chuck said, his voice rough. "Stay."

"I—"

"Please, Sarah. Sit down." He cleared his throat. "I just—I have to think."

Numb, she settled back onto the swing, knotting her fingers in the chain. Too restless to keep still, she pumped her legs, sending the swing coursing through the air.

"When you showed up tonight," Chuck said at last, "I never imagined you'd say anything like this. Honestly, I never thought you'd _ever _say anything like this to me, Sarah, even if you felt it. Ellie said—well, never mind. It's stupid."

Sarah snorted. "After everything I just told you—basically baring my soul—you're worried that sharing something _Ellie _told you is too embarrassing? Seriously, Chuck? Give a girl a break."

"Fair point. It's just—she said that when you thought no one was paying attention, you looked at me like you loved me." His voice trailed off. "I'm not asking you if you do, Sarah. I'm just saying—even if you did, it never occurred to me that you'd ever tell me so. Sometimes you look at me like maybe you could, like what we've pretended to have is real. And sometimes you look at me like a cute little pet. And when you kissed me—I don't have words for what that felt like. I guess I don't know what's real anymore."

Sarah slowed the trajectory of her swing, dragging her feet in the dirt to make it stop. "This is real, Chuck. The real me. Congratulations—you may be the only person to ever meet her."

"I'm honored," Chuck said after a moment. "I mean it, Sarah. And I want you to know—I feel like the best version of myself when I'm with you, too. I feel safe as well—which is understandable, since you're this total badass ninja-girl with a gun."

She chanced a sideways glance at him. He was grinning, that familiar, endearing smile that she'd missed.

"But," he said, the smile fading, "if we ran, you'd be what—a rogue agent, guilty of committing treason? And I'd be the most sought-after intelligence asset by our government and our enemies. What kind of life is that?"

"I've run before," Sarah said. "We'd make it work."

"_You've_ run," he said, a delicate emphasis on the first word. "But no matter how much I care about you—and I do, Sarah, more than you can imagine—I have a family. Maybe you and I could figure out a way to be safe, but we'd be leaving Ellie, Devon, Morgan, and everyone else I love in danger. There's got to be a better way."

"There isn't." Her throat was dry. "I'm taking a risk even being here with you. We run now, or they get you another handler, I'm off on assignment with Bryce, and your life is on the line the moment the new Intersect comes online. I don't want to lose you, Chuck. I can't."

He reached out and wrapped his fingers around hers where they gripped the chain. His touch was warm, and only then did she realize how icy she felt, through and through. She held herself still, trying to keep from trembling.

"Look, Sarah," he said, "after what happened the other night, I made a decision to start fighting back. I've been press-ganged into servitude through no fault of my own and I've had enough. I have some skills no one inside the government knows about. Skills that should allow me to gain knowledge over those who might wish me harm. And knowledge, in this case, _is_ power."

She twisted the swing to stare at him. "What kind of skills? Chuck, these are very dangerous people."

A smile quirked one side of his lips. She'd never seen him look quite like that before—half-self-conscious, half-proud. "And I'm the Piranha."

She nearly fell off the swing. "Oh my god, Chuck. The intelligence community has been looking for him for years. He's one of the top hackers in the world. You're him?"

Twining his fingers more closely with hers, he nodded.

"Of course you are. And you're working at the damn Buy More, fixing phones."

"Well," Chuck said, shrugging, "even you have to admit it makes for a good cover."

Sarah sat in silence, pondering the implications. "You'd think by now I'd stop underestimating you," she said at last. "Again, I'm sorry."

"This is one thing you don't have to apologize for. After all, it's not something I publicized. I've never told anyone, until now."

The weight of his trust lay heavy on her heart. What had she done to deserve it? "If we're not going to run away together, that means I'll have to obey my orders and leave tonight with Bryce," she said, struggling to keep her voice level. "I'm not sure if I can do that, Chuck, but if I leave the agency, there's no way I can keep tabs on what Graham might be up to. I can also make sure that Bryce plays his part and leads Fulcrum away from you and your family."

"This is your job, Sarah. I get that. But will you be _with_ him in this partnership this time around? Casey told me about the Anderson's." Even in the dim light, she could see his cheeks flush.

It would have been so easy to lie to him, but Sarah had promised herself that part of their relationship was done. She took a deep breath. "I'm sure that's both Graham's and Bryce's expectation, but it's not going to happen. My priorities will be gathering information to help keep you and your family safe, and finding a way back to you."

He let go of her hand and stood, pacing back and forth on the dirt in front of the swings. "I want to believe you, Sarah. I want that more than anything. But I don't know how to trust you or how to be sure that everything you're saying right now isn't a lie or some other kind of manipulation. When it comes to your actions, you've given me nothing to work with but the worst—what you told me when you took the sodium pentothal, what I saw in my bedroom last night. For all I know, you'll leave tonight and I'll never see you again."

She bowed her head. "I know I'm a mess, Chuck. This is all my fault. You've been nothing but kind and honest, and in return I've shown you the worst version of myself. Please have patience with me. I want—no, I _need _to start letting you in. If this has a chance in hell of working out, I know I have to. You deserve so much better—but if you feel about me the way I do about you, then I'm begging you to let me try."

His feet came to a halt in front of her. She could hear him breathing, slow and ragged.

"Don't say anything," she said before he could speak. "Not now. Think about it before you tell me no—or yes, for that matter. I want you to be sure."

He drew one breath, then another. "All right," he said at last.

Her eyes flicked to her watch. "I'm sorry, Chuck, but we need to head back if I'm going to catch my flight."

"Sure, Sarah." He held out a hand to help her up. In the firmness of his grip as his fingers closed around hers, she allowed herself to imagine she felt a promise. "Let's go."

OoOoOoOoO

They walked side by side back to Chuck's apartment, fingers brushing. Chuck felt like he'd stepped into an alternate universe. He wanted desperately to believe her, to give her the chance she'd asked him for. What had she said—_If you feel about me the way I do about you, then I'm begging you to let me try_. He'd never imagined Sarah would beg him for anything. His brain hurt, but for the first time since Bryce Larkin had woken up in that capsule, he felt hopeful. Once again, nothing was like he'd thought it was—but just maybe, somehow, things would be okay.

Sarah's Porsche came into view and their steps slowed. Chuck cleared his throat. "What should I tell Ellie about our chat? Since we're on an honesty kick, she didn't want me to go. She thinks I forgive people too easily—that I'll forgive _you _too easily. I have to tell her something."

"She wants to protect you," Sarah said, lifting her eyes to his. "For you to be safe. I can understand that."

Chuck looked down at her, struggling to hold onto his anger. With the streetlight silvering her hair and her eyes fixed on his face like he was the only person who mattered to her—like he was all she saw—he wanted more than anything to bury his hands in her hair and kiss her. If he never saw her again, he wanted just once to show her how he felt, without the imminent threat of death as a motivating factor. What would it hurt, to kiss her the way he'd always dreamed of doing?

"I've been thinking a lot about that," Sarah said, reaching out to take his hand in hers.

He jumped, startled. Was it possible she'd somehow learned to read minds on top of everything else? "Huh?"

"Ellie," Sarah said, looking up at him with a rueful smile. "I think she should know the truth. All of it. You were right, Chuck. She's the second smartest person I know and she can handle it. You'll need to be careful about where you tell her, but she deserves to know everything. I'm sorry you've had to lie to her. Please tell her that I'm sorry I caused her any pain and that I'll miss her."

Chuck shoved his free hand through his hair. _Don't kiss her, you idiot. Don't kiss her. Do that and you'll be right back where you started. _"When will I hear from you again?" he said, trying to ignore the warmth of her palm against his, the way their fingers fit like they were made for each other.

"As soon as I've figured out a secure way. It will be my top priority."

"If that's the issue, I have it covered."

"What do you mean?" Sarah said, sounding bewildered. "How?"

"Here." He held out his hand. "Give me your phone."

She dug into her pocket and placed her phone in his palm. It felt odd to show her this side of himself—but after all, he'd confessed he was the Piranha; what did he have to lose? Bypassing her lock screen, he opened up a web browser and got to work.

When he handed her phone back a few minutes later, her home screen featured a new app. "That's an encrypted, end-to-end instant messenger and videotelephony application I created at Stanford. I've linked it to the same application on my phone. No one else in the world has this software and it's as secure as we'll ever need. Trust me."

Sarah pocketed her phone, eyes wide. "I do trust you, Chuck. Implicitly. I'll contact you as soon as I can."

"Okay." It was horribly inadequate, but the best he could manage. "Please be careful."

"I will, Chuck. You too." She bit her lip, looking suddenly small and alone. Chuck imagined her as a little girl, rejected by her mother, used by her father, only wanting a place to belong. How had any of this been her fault? All she'd wanted was for someone to love her. At least he'd had Ellie. Sarah had had no one.

Tears gleamed in her eyes, making his chest ache. Still, no matter how much he wanted to kiss her, he wouldn't do it until he was sure she was sincere about wanting to be with him—and that he knew he could trust her.

"Bye, Sarah," he said, leaning forward to press his lips to her cheek—but she turned her head at the last second, their lips met, and he was set ablaze. She tasted like he remembered—strawberry lip gloss and spearmint and something else, a taste that was uniquely Sarah.

He let go of her hand and wound his fingers in her hair as she grabbed a fistful of his T-shirt, tugging him toward her. The first time they'd kissed, he'd been too stunned—and too convinced they were about to die—to do much but react. This time was different. He was acutely aware of every sensation—the feel of her hair as it slid through his fingers, the heat of her body against his. Chuck could feel her heart pounding—or maybe it was his?

He traced a finger down her cheekbone, following the path of her tears, and stepped away, feeling dazed. "That," he said, struggling to focus, "was so unfair."

Sarah's mouth lifted in a smile. "All's fair, Chuck," she said, going on tiptoes to press her lips to his once more.

He closed his eyes and breathed in, savoring the warmth of her touch, the scent of strawberries, and the brush of her hair. She stepped away, and the Porsche's door creaked open, then slammed shut.

He wasn't sure if he could stand to watch her drive away—but he opened his eyes, anyhow. She'd rolled down the passenger-side window and waved him closer.

Arms braced on the window sill, Chuck leaned in. "Yes?"

"Lisa," she said, eyes fixed on his.

"Excuse me?"

"My middle name is Lisa."

Of all the things Sarah could have told him, this went the furthest toward convincing him she'd meant what she said, and she wanted things to be different between them. A welcome, unfamiliar feeling filled his chest—hope.

She rolled the window back up before he could react. As he watched, she revved the engine, then pulled away from the curb without looking back—and then, she was gone.

* * *

Starting to venture into more A/U. As always, we want to know what you think! Please leave a review.


	4. Chuck vs the Crown Victory

Chapter Four … in which Chuck gets a new handler, Sarah gets a new mission, and Casey gains respect for the asset's gambling abilities.

This chapter starts the Crown Vic arc. While some elements of canon are still prevalent, the split in the story has created a butterfly effect.

Disclaimer: We don't own Chuck…

* * *

**Chapter 4: ****Chuck vs the Crown Victory  
**

The next morning felt surreal. In what universe would Sarah kiss Chuck like that when they weren't both about to die, much less acknowledge her middle name? Finally, he knew something real about her. Maybe he'd dreamed the whole thing.

One look at Ellie's face when he came out of his bedroom, dressed for work, and he knew he hadn't. Still in her robe, Ellie leaned against the counter, sipping her coffee, watching Chuck as if she was afraid he'd shatter into a million pieces.

"Good morning, Chuck," she said, but it really sounded like she meant, _Are you okay?  
_

"Morning, El." Chuck poured his coffee into a to-go thermos, doing his best to avoid her gaze.

"So," she said, trying and failing to sound casual, "how did your talk with Sarah go last night? I didn't hear you come back in."

He braced himself. "As well as can be expected, considering. Long story short, she's gone."

Ellie stared at him. "Excuse me?"

Chuck sipped his coffee, trying to shield himself from her X-ray vision, which always seemed to be able to penetrate his veneer to whatever thoughts lurked beneath. "The good news is, I think I may have the answers we were looking for."

She ignored this. "Gone? With Bryce?"

Silently, Chuck nodded.

"That _bitch," _Ellie said with such vitriol, it alarmed him. "What the hell is going on? Spill it, Chuck."

He needed to find a time to tell her the truth—but this wasn't it. "Ellie, I can't go over everything with you right now. It's just too much. What's your work schedule?"

She refilled her coffee from the decanter. "I'm pulling a double shift today and tonight and then I'll need to get some sleep."

"Okay, how about I call you and we'll plan a brother-sister dinner as soon as possible? This will take a while to explain." That was the understatement of the year.

Over the edge of her coffee cup, Ellie gave him her patented I-basically-raised-you-and-you-can't-fool-me stare. "Sure, Chuck, but you have me worried. I know how much you loved her."

He raised an eyebrow. "_Love_, Ellie. Present tense."

Ellie rested her hand on his shoulder. "I'm so sorry. You deserve to be treated better than this. My heart's breaking for you."

"It'll all work out somehow," Chuck said, grabbing his keys and heading for the front door. "I'll talk to you later, okay?"

He felt like he was lying to her already—but that wasn't a fair assessment, given that he planned to tell her the truth as soon as they got a solid moment alone. Still, guilt taunted him as she hugged him goodbye. "Try and keep your head up and know that I'm always here for you," she said, holding him close.

He stepped back. "I know, sis… and right now, you don't know how much that means to me. I love you."

"Love you too, little brother," she said.

Giving her a half-smile, Chuck headed out the door.

OoOoOoOoO

Chuck stood at the front window of the Buy More, eyes focused on the Wienerlicious. No matter how absurd he'd always thought it was that Sarah worked there, it felt stranger still to know that she wouldn't come walking into the Buy More in that adorable red skirt, smelling faintly of sauerkraut.

He wanted to think about something—_anything_—else. But no matter how hard he tried, his thoughts drifted back to the silky feel of Sarah's hair as it slipped through his fingers, the warmth of her mouth on his … the expression on her face before they'd said goodbye.

Distraction arrived in the unlikely form of Casey, who slunk up behind Chuck with a level of stealth that ought to be impossible for such a large man. "Decided to take up bird watching?" he said, following Chuck's line of sight.

Damn it. "Just breathing in the view," Chuck said, looking away from the Wienerlicious with an effort.

"Hmm," Casey said, the sound somehow both noncommittal and judgmental.

"I know that grunt. That's the Number 7, right? Skeptical with a side of cynicism."

"Just clearing my throat." Casey folded his arms across his chest. "Couldn't help but notice Agent Walker's car isn't in her usual spot."

Did the guy have any modes other than obnoxious or aggressive? "Oh," Chuck said, trying to look as if the idea had never occurred to him. "I didn't notice that at all."

"Hmm," Casey said again, this time with a definite judgmental edge.

"Fine, maybe I did," Chuck said, surrendering. "So? Have you heard anything about her replacement?"

Casey shrugged, the picture of nonchalance. "Nope, I guess we'll just have to see. Oh, don't worry. There's a great selection of new handlers in this year's CIA Christmas catalog."

"Are there?" Chuck called after him as Casey stalked off. "Thanks a lot."

No sooner had Casey left him in peace than Morgan appeared. "She's a liar," he said without preamble. "Not to be trusted."

"What's that?" Chuck said, feeling as if he'd missed a vital part of the conversation.

"Women. Man, they're so elusive. So unknowable. They wrap you in this sweater of lies, and it keeps you warm but makes your neck itchy."

There were so many troubling elements to this line of thought, Chuck didn't even know how to begin analyzing them. "Who are we talking about exactly?"

"Anna," Morgan said, as matter-of-factly as if Chuck's own romantic issues were beside the point. "Never trust a woman whose name is a palindrome."

Deciding that it was fruitless to pursue a grammatically-aligned analysis of Anna's shortcomings as a girlfriend, Chuck took another tactic. "Uh, how do you know she's a liar?"

Morgan began ticking off his reasons on his fingers, as if building a legal proof. "I wait outside her house last night in the bushes. I see her get picked up to go out, then get dropped off exactly three hours and 24 minutes later. She's cheating on me. My Anna-banana is cheating on me."

"In the bushes?" Chuck said, feeling as if the conversation had taken an unexpected—and rather appalling—turn.

"Well, I brought a sandwich, you know," Morgan said, shrugging as if his inability to stave off hunger while stalking his girlfriend were the primary issue here. "She's lying to me, okay? And a relationship is built on trust, Chuck. Sex and trust. Am I right?"

Like Chuck was the big relationship expert. It wasn't as if his own had gone so well. "Yeah, yeah. Two big prerequisites, I guess?"

Morgan sighed. "Ever wish you were born, like, a dog or a dolphin? Dr. Dre? Who's cheating on Dre, man?"

Chuck had no earthly idea how to answer such a question. Fortunately, Lester and Jeff chose that moment to arrive in front of them. Lester clutched a work order in his hand. "Uh, we got an install job over in Marina Del Rey."

Why did everyone think Chuck was the information conduit for all things Buy More and love-life related? "Go with God, fellas," he said, sketching a hasty salute.

"No, no, no," Lester said, shaking his head more emphatically with each refusal. "Big Mike says you have to come with us. You know that Jeff's not to be left unsupervised around holidays."

"You wanna try my eggnog?" Jeff said, brightening.

All things being equal, Chuck could've used a drink—and he loved eggnog. But watching Lester shake his head yet again behind Jeff's back made the decision easy. "Not a chance," he said as Jeff's face fell.

"I'm sorry," Morgan said, sounding like Eeyore on an especially gloomy day in the Hundred Acre Wood. "Is it okay if you go by yourself? Because Anna's cheating on me."

"Ouch." Lester winced. "Who's the lucky guy?"

"Maybe it's not another guy," Jeff said with an alarming degree of hopefulness.

Morgan's face began to redden above his beard. Deciding to head things off before they got out of control, Chuck resigned himself to an afternoon with the moron twins. At least it would get him out of the store. "Okay, let's strap on our life jackets and hit the Marina," he said, herding them toward the door. With any luck, the job would be a bit of a challenge, and would keep his mind off what he wondered most: Where Sarah was, what she was doing, and—most galling of all—whether she was thinking about him.

OoOoOoOoO

When Sarah's alarm went off at 9:30 the next morning, she reached to turn it off, only to realize it was on the other side of the room. She yanked a massive knife from under her pillow and threw it in the direction of the alarm's insistent buzzing, impaling the clock against the wall. The clock let out an indignant squeak and died.

Pushing herself up to a sitting position, Sarah glared at the remnants of the hotel's alarm clock. Then she slid down the pillows and stared at the ceiling, mustering the energy she needed to meet with Bryce this morning.

God, he'd been such a pain in the ass yesterday. Her conversation with Chuck—not to mention that amazing kiss—had almost made her late to the airport. When she'd showed up at the gate just in time for last call, Bryce just stood there, smirking at her.

"Cutting it kinda close, don't you think?" he'd said, glancing at his watch. "I was starting to wonder if you were going to show."

She'd rolled her eyes. "Really? I'm not the one who's been accused of going rogue. You know I've always done my job, even when I've found it distasteful. Can we just get on with this assignment?"

"Sure." He'd reached down to take her hand. "Come on."

Disgusted, Sarah had pulled her hand away. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"We're the Andersons, remember? Gotta sell it." As they made their way into the crowd of people lining up for the gate, he'd held up his left hand, complete with fake wedding ring. "Which reminds me—here's yours."

He'd pulled hers out of his pocket and she'd edged away instinctively, gripping the handle of her carry-on. "I don't think so, Bryce. That ship has sailed. Plus, we have no idea what we'll need as far as a cover is concerned until we're briefed in the morning."

Sighing, he'd stuck the ring back in his pocket. "So I guess we're still not good?"

"That," Sarah said, pushing ahead of him to make her way through the gate, "is an understatement."

They'd hardly spoken on the flight or the cab ride to their hotel. Bryce had tried again and again to break the silence, but Sarah had just given him a stony stare and at last he'd given up, until they'd made it to the check-in counter of their hotel—the St. Regis San Francisco—and he'd gotten the attention of the desk clerk.

"Good evening," he'd said, charming as ever. "Or morning, I guess. We'd like to check in. There should be a reservation for Anderson."

Sarah had had a feeling this was the way everything was going to go. Still, that didn't mean she had to put up with it. "Please check to see if you have a reservation for Walker as well," she said, leaning her elbows on the counter.

The clerk had smothered a yawn with the back of her hand. "I do have a reservation for an Anderson, but there's nothing under Walker."

_Naturally. _"Do you have any vacancies?"

"Yes," the clerk had said, tapping her long, overly-manicured nails on her keyboard. "But no singles. We just have suites available."

"I'll take it," Sarah had said immediately, handing over her CIA-issued credit card. Bryce did the same, and they'd headed for the elevator, keycards in hand.

As soon as the doors closed, Bryce had turned to Sarah. "What's going on? Why are you being this way?"

She'd glared at him. "Not now, Bryce. You'll want to be giving me some space right now, if you know what's good for you. We'll meet up in the morning after we get our intel package and go over our assignment." The elevator doors had opened on his floor and she'd gestured through them. "This is your stop, Bryce."

Giving her an incredulous look, he'd stepped out of the elevator. When the doors closed behind him, she'd let out a sigh of relief as she made her way to her suite, collapsing on the bed. She'd barely had the energy to set the alarm and shimmy out of her jeans before crawling under the covers and falling asleep.

Now it was morning, and she had no choice but to deal with the implications of her current situation. They'd send Chuck a new female handler today—she was sure of it. Graham would want to keep up the pretense that whoever spent so much time with Chuck was at least a romantic possibility. What if the handler they sent tried to seduce Chuck to control him? Sarah prided herself on never taking this approach with any of her assets, but she knew she was in the minority. It was a lot easier to charm your way into their bed than to gain their trust through time, effort, and getting to know them.

It wasn't as if she thought Chuck would jump into bed with the first agent they sent his way—he wasn't like that—but things between the two of them had been far from settled when she left and after all, he didn't owe her anything. She was the one with something to prove. Not to mention—what if he thought she was lying about the status of her relationship with Bryce, that no matter what she'd promised him, she and Bryce were happily impersonating a married couple in every sense of the word?

Her head spinning, Sarah got to her feet. She would take a shower, get dressed, get their orders—and then let Chuck know what was going on. Somehow, they would work this out. She would make things right.

OoOoOoOoO

Chuck had never been on a yacht before—but IT systems were similar regardless of context, and it didn't take much effort to get everything up and running. Lester and Jeff, to his complete lack of surprise, were more of a hindrance than anything else. Jeff seemed to have overindulged on eggnog, and Lester spent half his time making sure his partner didn't fall overboard and the other half ogling their surroundings. In the end, Chuck wound up installing the system on his own—which he actually didn't mind. It gave him the distraction he needed to focus on something other than Sarah and whomever they might send to take her place.

He had no idea who owned the yacht—but whoever it was had a minion in a suit who hovered over Chuck's shoulder the whole time he was there, making sure Chuck didn't wander off or do anything else untoward. It was more than a little annoying, and Chuck was relieved when everything was done.

"Okay," he said to the minion at long last. "The system checks out and everything's online. Most on-board functions are controllable from anywhere on the ship."

"She reminds me of the Pacific Princess," Lester said, with alarming confidence.

The minion's tone was so dry, he would have been right at home in the Gobi. "I'm not familiar."

"Oh, really." Lester leaned back against one of the yacht's columns, endeavoring to project an aura of sophistication.

"The Love Boat," Chuck said, fed up. "He's referring to Love Boat."

Lester shot a look of betrayal at his supervisor. "Chuck, please!"

The minion looked more disgusted than ever.

"You got a head on board?" Jeff said, clutching his thermos to his chest. "I had a lot of eggnog."

Chuck didn't get paid enough to deal with this. "Which you should've left at home. Not every boat you get on is a booze cruise."

Ignoring him, Jeff turned to head down a flight of stairs. The black-suited minion chased after him. "The bathroom is not in there. Nobody downstairs!"

Months of working with NSA and CIA agents had given Chuck a clear sense of when a situation was about to go south. He chased after Jeff and the minion, a sinking feeling in his stomach. "No, Jeff. Wait! Stop, Jeff. No!"

But there was no stopping an eggnog-soused idiot in pursuit of a place to relieve himself. Jeff bounded down the stairs, only to stop abruptly at the bottom. Over his head, Chuck saw three guys sitting around a wooden table, a money-counting machine, and stacks of $100 bills in front of them.

"Whoa," Jeff said, sounding awed. "Jackpot."

"Please," the minion said, pushing them away from the table. "Get out. Go, go, go."

"What's with all the cash?" Lester said, craning to see.

The black-suited minion shoved him out of the way, but Lester resisted, trying to get a better look. "Easy, sister."

"I'm not your sister," he said. "They're counting money raised for Mr. Kirk's aid organization from a charity event."

"Kirk, as in the captain?"

"Lon Kirk," the minion said with exaggerated patience. "The man who owns this boat."

Chuck struggled to bring a semblance of normalcy to the situation, despite the fact that they'd clearly stumbled into a place they had no business being. "Oh, right. Lon Kirk, he's a billionaire. He owns a country somewhere, right?"

His question went unanswered as two gorgeous women in bikinis came up the steps from below deck. "Incoming," Jeff said unnecessarily.

"Oh," Lester said, combing his fingers through his hair. "Ladies, I'm getting my sea legs."

Could this get any more humiliating?

Another man crossed in front of them, stacks of hundred-dollar bills in his hands. One found its way free from its binding and fell to the floor in front of Chuck's feet. He bent to pick it up, desperate for distraction—and flashed.

"They're fake," he muttered to himself, regarding the bill.

Why was it that he couldn't go anywhere—not even on a Nerd Herd assignment for the Buy More—without finding himself enmeshed in a prime-time crime drama?

"Come on, guys. It's time we got out of these gentlemen's hair," he said to Jeff and Lester, handing the money back to the minion in the suit. Before anything worse could happen, he led the way up the steep flight of stairs.

OoOoOoOoO

Chuck had, of course, told Casey about the counterfeit money—feeling even as he did that he was opening the door to yet another mess in which he'd wind up mired. On the one hand, it made him happy to be helping people, playing a part in righting the wrongs that thieves or murderers committed. On the other hand, his life's ambition had been to be the next Bill Gates, not the next Jason Bourne.

Casey had grunted at him—no surprise there—and then called Graham and Beckman, reporting everything Chuck had relayed to him. Now here they were in the NSA agent's apartment—he and Casey standing side by side, Graham and Beckman on the big screen—trying to get to the bottom of what Chuck had seen.

"The serial numbers that the asset flashed on are a strain of counterfeit currency the treasury's been trying to crack for years," Graham said, peering over Beckman's left shoulder. "But perhaps we should wait to debrief you until Agent Walker's replacement arrives. She should already be there."

As if they'd summoned her, a knock sounded on Casey's front door. Casey excused himself to open it, revealing a woman who—objectively speaking—was one of the most stunning human beings Chuck had ever seen. Lou could've sliced salami with this woman's cheekbones. What was with the CIA? First Sarah, then Bryce—who even Chuck had to admit was a hot hunk of man—and now this? Did they only hire people with supermodel potential?

"Major Casey?" the woman said.

Casey gave an affirmative grunt.

"I'm Agent Zondra Rizzo," she said, holding out her hand for Casey to shake. "I'm sorry I'm late. I was held up at the real estate office. I had to finalize my living arrangements. I'll be taking over the apartment that just became available here—across the courtyard. Everything should be ready by this afternoon."

She was going to be moving in across the courtyard? Between Casey and Zondra Rizzo, Chuck would be living under a freakin' microscope. He sighed, and her gaze flicked over Casey's shoulder, finding Chuck's face. Her features softened in surprise—and then her mouth lifted in a flirtatious smile.

Chuck tried to glance away, but something about her gaze held him steady … and then he flashed. He saw her file, the fact that she'd been a member of the C.A.T. Squad with Sarah. Something had gone wrong, though—Sarah had discovered a hidden transmitter in the heel of Zondra's boot and accused the other agent of being a traitor, feeding information to Augusto Gaez, the leader of a group called the Gentle Hand. Zondra had denied all accusations and passed a CIA lie detector test.

Something about the accusation didn't feel right to Chuck—the Intersect had shown him some things that didn't make any sense. He didn't believe she was guilty. But before he could hone in on the specifics, the flash faded, leaving him standing in Casey's living room, dizzy and confused.

"Agent Rizzo, glad you could make it," Graham said, raising an eyebrow as Zondra strode into the living room on Casey's heels. "I take it that the moving crew I arranged for you will be adequate?"

"Yes sir. Looks like they should have everything done on schedule," Zondra said, ducking her head in apology. "Sorry again for being late."

"You'll have time to introduce yourself further to your team after our briefing. Since you've been fully read in on this operation and Mr. Bartowski, can we proceed?" Zondra nodded, and Graham continued, "The asset has flashed on some counterfeit currency found on a yacht owned by Lon Kirk—"

"I am standing right here," Chuck interrupted, fed up with all of them. "The name's Chuck. It's not that hard to say or remember. It's only one syllable."

Zondra shot him a curious look, which Chuck ignored. He didn't care what she thought—he was tired of being treated like an object.

"Hmm." As always, it was challenging to interpret the NSA agent's nonverbal approach to communication, but Chuck thought he sensed an undertone of approval in Casey's grunt.

"Does the _asset_ have something to share with the class?" Graham said, in a threatening way that reminded Chuck of Professor Snape.

"No, not really," Chuck said, straightening his spine.

"As we were saying," Beckman said, eyeing Chuck as if he'd never seen him before, "Lon Kirk now devotes most of his time and money to aid projects, mostly foreign."

"And we think he's the source of the currency," Casey said, pulling the conversation back on track.

"Not confirmed," Graham said crisply. "However, we have intel that a major counterfeiter is in Los Angeles, trying to acquire a new set of printing plates."

Casey nodded. "And how should we proceed?"

"As far as Kirk is concerned, very cautiously." Graham leaned forward, catching each of their gazes in turn. "He's very well-connected."

"He's hosting a charity event tonight at the New Constellation Yacht Club. Zondra and _Chuck_ will go as guests. Casey as staff," Beckman said, and Chuck felt a sense of satisfaction—not to mention surprise— that the general had actually bothered to use his name. This standing-up-for-himself approach was going better than he'd hoped.

"One question," Casey said, relentlessly on task as usual. "Will Chuck and Zondra be going as a couple?"

Beckman's eyes flicked from Chuck to Sarah's replacement. "Unless they have a problem."

"No problem," Zondra said without hesitation.

If Morgan, Jeff, or Lester found themselves in Chuck's situation, they wouldn't have hesitated either—especially, Chuck mused, now that Morgan's Anna-banana was supposedly cheating on him. But when Chuck thought about spending an evening at the Yacht Club, pretending to be another woman's fake boyfriend under the guise of yet another false identity, all he felt was a pervading sense of exhaustion. "No problem, I guess," he said, meeting Beckman's penetrating stare.

"Good luck, then," Graham said, and cut the feed.

Immediately, Zondra turned to Casey. "Well, Major. It's a pleasure to be working with you. Your reputation proceeds you."

His reputation as what, Chuck wondered? Hard-ass and nuanced nonverbal communicator extraordinaire?

"Hmm," Casey said, proving Chuck's point. "You can just call me Casey, Rizzo. No need for formalities. We're partners, after all."

"Thank you, Casey." She gave the NSA agent a slow smile identical to the one she'd given Chuck when she first caught sight of him, and Chuck fought the urge to laugh. If ever there was someone who was unlikely to fall for Zondra's charms, it was Casey. Chuck couldn't imagine the NSA agent hugging someone, much less getting sucked in by a gorgeous woman's wiles for any purpose other than furthering an agenda of his own. "If you don't mind, I'd like some time alone with Chuck so we can get to know each other better."

"I'm sure you would," Casey said, smirking. "Just remember, we need to be wheels-up by twenty-one hundred hours tonight."

Chuck couldn't decide whether this was a compliment on his virility or an insult to his ability to see through Zondra's intentions. Either way, he had a feeling Casey would be giving him a hard time about it later.

"Roger that. Chuck, got a second to chat?" Zondra nodded toward the front door.

Anything to escape this absurd scenario. "Sure," Chuck said, turning to follow her. He gave Casey a dirty look over his shoulder, but all the NSA agent did was raise an eyebrow.

OoOoOoOoO

Sarah was sitting at the glass table by the window of her room, half-dressed and sipping bad hotel coffee, when her cell phone rang. She grabbed for it and saw Bryce's name pop up on the caller ID.

Determined to keep things professional between them, she answered the call with, "Walker, secure," adhering strictly to CIA protocol.

"Good morning," Bryce said, sounding cheerful.

"Dammit, Bryce." She clunked her coffee cup onto the table, hard enough that liquid sloshed over the sides. "Are you secure or not?"

"Relax, Sarah." Even though it wasn't a video call, she was sure he was rolling his eyes. "I'm secure, and I just received our package. Come to my room so we can review the intel."

Bryce had a gift for making the most innocent suggestions sound like a come-on. "Fine. Give me a bit to finish getting dressed."

"Or just come as you are," he said, a teasing note in his voice.

Fuming, Sarah mopped at the spilled coffee with the hotel's fancy napkins and didn't say a word.

"Okay, okay. I'm in room—"

"I know what room you're in. Spy, remember?" Sarah said, and disconnected the call.

Digging in her suitcase for a clean pair of jeans, she pondered what her next steps should be, regardless of the contents of the package. The optics of the mission so far were far from ideal—Bryce with a ring on his finger and another one in his pocket, just ready and waiting for her to slide it on. She had to figure out an alternative, something that would be more intriguing to Bryce than being Mr. and Mrs. Anderson again—not to mention equally appealing to the CIA. And whatever happened, she had to be willing to tell Chuck the truth about it. There would be no more secrets or lies between them. Sarah might not know much about what a healthy romantic relationship entailed, but she was pretty sure pretending to be married to another man wasn't part of the deal.

OoOoOoOoO

"So—_Chuck_—I'm glad we have a moment to become better acquainted," Zondra said as they shut the door of Casey's apartment behind them. "I've read through your file and although it tells me a lot about you, I'd like to get to know you better on a much more personal level."

Having no idea how to respond to this, Chuck wisely decided to remain silent.

"I admit that I was pleasantly surprised when I saw you in person," Zondra went on, strolling over to the fountain and sitting down on the edge. "The picture in your file didn't do you justice. I'm also really impressed by all of the things you've accomplished since being thrown head-first into this situation. And without any training, no less."

Chuck debated whether or not sitting down next to her would send the wrong signal. Maybe it would—but so would hovering over her like a creepy stalker. "I really haven't done all that much," he said, taking a seat a careful distance away. "Usually Sarah or Casey had to save my butt. I couldn't have done any of those things without their help."

At the mention of Sarah's name, Chuck saw a peculiar expression flash across Zondra's face—somewhere between irritation and regret. Then it was gone, replaced by what Chuck was beginning to realize was the agent's default charming smile. "Wow, really cute—and humble. You shouldn't sell yourself short like that, Chuck. What you've managed to pull off here is amazing."

Chuck fidgeted, uncomfortable. "We'll see if you still have that opinion of me after you've heard my girlish screams in the face of danger."

Zondra burst into laughter. Wiping her eyes, she said, "I think this is going to work out great. I have a good feeling about you. It's quite refreshing after some of the people I've had to work with."

He wished he could say the same. "Sorry to hear that, Zondra, but look—I'm going to have to cut this short. I really need to get going." He glanced down at his watch. "I've got to punch back in at the Buy More."

"No problem," Zondra said. "We'll have plenty of time to catch up."

"Should we carpool on the mission tonight, or—"

"That sounds like a good plan. But why don't you come by my place a little early so we can continue our little chat?" She pointed at her front door, just across the courtyard. "Let's say around 7:30?"

He nodded, resigning himself to his fate, and headed toward the Herder.

"Chuck?" Zondra said.

He turned back. She'd stood up and was grinning at him.

"I'm really excited to be working with you."

OoOoOoOoO

Sarah knocked on Bryce's door with high hopes that he would answer it like a typical CIA agent assigned to be her partner—namely, wearing all of his clothes. Instead, his outfit was limited to a pair of jeans that looked like they'd been tailor-made for him. His chest and feet were bare.

"Hey there, gorgeous," he said, one arm propped on the door frame, giving her a half-smile. "Come on in."

Sarah had to suppress a groan. "I will as soon as _you_ finish getting dressed."

Surrendering, Bryce let his arm fall. "All right, all right, fine. I'll just finish up in the bathroom. Our package is on my desk. Help yourself." He gestured toward the small courtesy desk in the corner and headed for the bathroom, suitcase in hand.

Sarah settled at the desk to read. By the time he came out, fully dressed and hair combed, Sarah had made her way through most of the files.

"So, what's our mission?" he said, dragging over one of the armchairs by the window.

She fanned the papers out on the desk and flipped through them. "Looks like there's been some ECHELON chatter captured, coming out of the FBI field office here in town. They think it's a female operative asking questions about an encrypted microchip containing top-secret information. The chatter's centered around the information on the chip. It supposedly contains highly classified intelligence that could compromise a lot of deep-cover operatives. Maybe even us. Whoever's talking has also mentioned the Intersect computer in connection with the chip. Fulcrum is almost surely involved."

Arching an eyebrow, Bryce reached for the pages and started reading through them. "So what's our cover?"

"We'll need to be FBI field agents, obviously," Sarah said, drawing a deep breath. Now was the time for her to mention the idea that had come to her earlier—and hope Bryce would bite. "Graham's arranging for us to be 'transferred' to this field office, but he has us going in as the Andersons. I don't think it's the smart play here, though."

Bryce dropped the papers into his lap. "What? Why? Orders are orders, Sarah. You know Graham doesn't like his decisions questioned. We can't play fast and loose with this." He leaned forward, putting his hand on her arm. His touch was warm and disconcertingly familiar. "Plus, it will be great to be a married couple again. I've missed us. It'll be like old times again."

She jerked back, brushing off her arm as if his touch stung. "Let's get one thing straight. Even if we did stick with our old cover—that's all it will ever be. And even then, expect me to be pushing for a divorce. Call it irreconcilable differences or whatever you want to call it. Now cut the crap, get your game face on and start thinking like a spy."

Bryce's eyebrow lifted in the quirk that was his version of a surprised expression. "I'm not sure I'm following you."

"We know the chatter out of this office is coming from what they think's a female," Sarah said, trying to sound nonchalant. "Also, the SAIC for the field office is an Agent Juliette Reeves. I'm not saying they're one and the same, but—"

Shrugging her shoulders, she rummaged through the paperwork on the desk until she came up with a photo of Reeves. The woman was undeniably attractive—thick brown hair, large dark eyes, full lips, and a toned body that reflected her commitment to her career.

Bryce's eyes brightened when she handed him the picture. "So you're suggesting I set up a honeytrap on Reeves?" He sat back in the armchair, studying the woman's image more closely. "I can do that."

"Handsome, undead, and humble," Sarah mumbled, then, louder, "I'm just suggesting we don't pigeon-hole ourselves with a cover that doesn't give us options once it's established."

He tossed the photo onto the bed. "All right, Sarah. You make some good points—though I won't deny I'll miss the fringe benefits of being your unlawfully-wedded husband. I'll call it in and see if Graham agrees."

"Great," Sarah said, and stood up to make herself another cup of the despicable hotel coffee. She would've really preferred something stronger, but it was 10 AM, she was on the job, and for right now, watered-down caffeine would have to do.

OoOoOoOoO

Coffee was the stuff of life, Chuck mused as he poured some into a thermos in the Buy More's break room. The fuel that kept him going, the elixir of energy, the driving force behind—

"Hey."

Chuck jumped, splashing hot coffee on his hands. "Damn it, Casey, would you stop sneaking up on me? This is a retail store, not Tora Bora."

Swiping the thermos from his hands, Casey tilted it back, taking a swig. "Oh, the new girl's got you all up in a tizzy. Flush out your headgear, moron. We know the Intersect needs as much room up there as it can get."

"Give me my coffee back, asshole. It may taste like crap, but it's all I have. And nothing is going on with me and Agent Rizzo."

"Better not be," Casey said, holding the thermos out of reach. "I had enough of that with you and Walker. You'll need your A-game tonight working with a new partner. Stay sharp." He tossed the thermos at Chuck, who barely managed to catch it without scalding himself again, and walked away.

"Goddamn it," Chuck muttered, filling his thermos once again. "All I want is a second's peace. Just one moment to—"

"Dude."

The interruption came from behind him. Sighing, he turned to see Morgan standing there, wringing his hands.

"Chuck. I need your help. I think I made a horrible mistake."

"What did you swallow this time?" Chuck said, hoping the Heimlich wouldn't be required. One time, Morgan had gulped a whole handful of brightly-colored buttons he'd mistakenly interpreted as Halloween candy.

"No, no, it's worse." Morgan ran his hands through his hair, which stood on end in sympathy with his mood. Even his beard looked frazzled. "Anna's parents are in town, right? So I tell her, 'Hey, I'd like to meet them.' She goes, 'Okay.' Are you kidding me? What was I thinking? My own parents don't even like me, and we're similar."

The Buy More's coffee wasn't known for its restorative qualities, but Chuck drank some more anyway. At this rate, he'd be lucky to sip any of it before it either turned ice cold or transformed into the tarry substance it became if left to its own devices for a prolonged period of time. "Morgan, relax, buddy. Just be yourself. That's what Anna likes, right? So will her parents."

"Yeah, right, you're right. That's what I'll do," Morgan said, looking vaguely reassured.

"Are you insane?" Lester said, popping up next to him like a poisonous mushroom after a rainstorm. "You can't be yourself. You have to be better than yourself by, like, a factor of ten."

"Or eleven," Jeff added, drawn to the drama by some kind of magnetic force.

The calm expression dissipated from Morgan's face. "I gotta take it up a notch, I gotta step it up. Who should I be?"

Lester shrugged. "Last I checked, there were over six billion people on the planet. Pick anyone—should be an improvement."

Morgan made a small, desperate sound, like a stepped-on kitten.

"Lester, you shut up," Chuck said, resisting the urge to dump what remained of his coffee over the guy's head. "Morgan, you relax. Relax. You're gonna be fine."

"Be myself. Rock 'n' roll. I'm going to make a fool of myself." Morgan shook his head, grabbed Chuck's much-contested coffee thermos from his hand, and drained it to the dregs.

OoOoOoOoO

Bryce and Sarah sat, waiting for Graham to call them back. When his phone rang, Bryce answered but didn't put it on speaker—always, Sarah reflected, wanting to have the upper hand. He held the receiver to his ear, listening and giving the occasional brief response. Finally, he disconnected with an, "Of course, sir," and turned to face Sarah.

"Looks like Graham's on board with your plan," he said, looking less than pleased. "I'll be Special Agent Bruce Anderson, and you'll be Special Agent Sasha Williams. He's already arranged for our 'transfer' to this field office and will be sending over our legacies within the hour. Agent Reeves has also been contacted about our transfer and wants to meet with us tonight."

Sarah tried not to let her relief show on her face. "Where and when will the meet be happening?"

"She wants to meet us at the Acquerello restaurant at eight thirty. That should still give us enough time to go over our legacies and backstories." Bryce stood, cracking his knuckles. "I want to go for a run—and get some decent coffee. That stuff is vile. You're welcome to join me on either expedition—if you don't think exercising together and hitting a Starbucks crosses too many boundaries."

"Of course not," Sarah said. "And I could use some exercise. We're partners, Bryce, not enemies. I just want to be sure we're clear about where the line is drawn."

"Oh, we're clear all right. And whether or not I'm happy about it, I'll respect your wishes, Sarah. Whatever else you might think about me, I've always respected you." He'd dropped his arrogant mask and was looking at her with an open expression she couldn't recall ever seeing on his face before. God help her, she believed he was sincere.

"Thank you," she said, her voice soft.

"Thought it went without saying." He turned to mess with the curtains. Sarah was sure it was because he wanted to hide his face.

She cleared her throat, steering the conversation back to business. "Look, Bryce—we should probably talk about our main objectives here. At some point we'll need to leak that you're really Bryce Larkin, rogue agent, and the host of the Intersect. Yes, we also need to flush out as many Fulcrum agents as we can in the process, but if we're not striving to lure them away from Chuck, what's the point? If they get their hands on him, it's all over."

He yanked the curtains shut with more force than necessary. "You don't need to worry about that. I've always looked out for him. He's the only friend I have."

"You'll have to explain that one to me sometime," Sarah said, her voice laced with more bitterness than she intended. "You've got a funny way of treating your friends."

Bryce turned to face her. Backlit by the sunlight that leaked through a tiny gap in the curtains, his expression was inscrutable. "Trust me, Sarah—there are things you don't know about."

She couldn't help it—she laughed. "You mean like working with Professor Fleming and framing Chuck for cheating? For Christ's sake, Bryce, you got him kicked out of Stanford, ruining the future he worked so hard for. Is that what you think friends do?"

Sinking onto the bed, Bryce swallowed hard. "Does he know?"

"Yes. He saw the recording of your interview with Fleming, setting him up."

"Shit—no wonder he hates me." He leaned back on his hands, bracing himself. "But look, if I didn't do what I did, he would be dead right now. He's not like you and me. He'd never survive our world."

Sarah busied herself tidying the papers on the desk. "I thought that at first too, but we'll have to agree to disagree on that. Chuck is stronger than you think. I've made the mistake of underestimating him—actually, I've made it several times—but I've learned he always finds a way to come out on top." She slid the papers back into their files. "Either way, you could have found a way to keep him safe without destroying his future."

Silence fell. Finally, Bryce said, his voice gentler than usual, "You really like him, don't you?"

"What's not to like?" Sarah said, shrugging.

Bryce's eyes narrowed. "Do you love him?"

The question hit too close to home. Sarah stood up, tucking her hair behind her ears. "Don't be ridiculous. Just do your job and I'll do mine."

He regarded her, not saying a word.

"I'm going back to my room," she said, looking down at him. "I'll see you around seven to go over everything and make our way to the meet. Please be ready and fully dressed when I get here."

"Sure, Sarah. I'm sorry if I upset you."

Was that actual remorse in Bryce's voice? Giving him one last glance, she strode from the hotel room, closing the door behind her.

OoOoOoOoO

Chuck stood outside Zondra's door, dressed in a black tux and bow tie, his hand raised to knock. Before his fist connected with the wood, Zondra called, "It's open."

He turned the knob. The door gave, revealing her living room, the hallway—and Zondra herself, strolling toward him in a white dress that clung to every curve.

"Good evening, Agent Rizzo," he said, determined to keep things as professional as possible.

"Please," she said, stopping a few inches away, "call me Zondra. We're partners, after all."

Was this some kind of ploy? Sarah had always insisted on formalities during missions. "Sure. No problem," Chuck said, endeavoring to keep his eyes fixed on her face.

She ran her finger over the lapel of his tux. "Wow, Chuck. You clean up really nice."

This close up, he could smell her perfume—light and floral, with an unmistakable edge. "Um—ah, thank you. You look lovely." Damn, he was stammering like an idiot.

"So, Chuck," she said, looking up through her lashes at him, "tonight for our cover, we're a couple. You're—"

He backed away, which didn't help. Now he was cornered against the door. "Charles Carmichael. Yeah, I got it. It should be pretty fun though."

"I'm really looking forward to it. Here, your bow tie's a little crooked." She reached to straighten it, but he grabbed her hands before she could touch him.

"It's fine. I've got it."

She winked. "Yes, you do."

Zondra Rizzo was definitely hitting on him—either to see what his reaction would be, or to achieve some agenda of her own. Either way, he was getting tired of being manipulated.

"We should also talk about our cover story, long term," she went on, mercifully taking a step back to toy with a box stacked on a side table.

"Long term? What do you mean?"

"As boyfriend and girlfriend," Zondra said, running her finger over the seam of packing tape. "My moving in here, at Echo Park, should make our meeting more organic and allow us to sell our cover to your family and friends without raising a lot of suspicions. I need to be able to stay close to you to be able to do my job. Plus, there's nothing to say we can't have some fun with this cover along the way as well." Just in case he had any doubt as to her intentions, she sidled closer again and placed a hand on his arm.

Chuck had had enough of being trapped against the door like a butterfly pinned to a board. "I'm not so sure that's a good idea," he said, stepping aside so that her hand fell away.

"Why's that?"

"Look, when Sarah's cover was blown with my sister, it caused a lot of suspicion in Casa Bartowski. There's no way Ellie will believe I've moved on so quickly. You're a new neighbor. Why can't we just become friends for real, rather than faking some kind of romantic relationship? That way, we wouldn't have to sell anything. It would be the truth. I'm sick to death about lying to my sister about all this crap." He tugged on his bow tie, doubtless making the situation worse, but Zondra didn't seem to notice. She tilted her head, considering his suggestion.

"Friends, huh? I don't have too many of those in my life. That might be a hard sell to Graham and Beckman, though."

"Trust me," Chuck said, pressing his advantage. "I know how the situation stands with my family and friends. This is the best cover we can have right now without it all blowing up in our faces."

"We'll see what they say. As long as I can stay close to you, I'm good. Our fun can be had in many other ways," she teased.

"Oh—ah—okay," Chuck said, feeling more than a bit discomfited. "Ready to go to work?"

She gave him a salacious smile. "Ready and willing."

OoOoOoOoO

When Sarah got to Bryce's room at 7:30, she was relieved to find him in possession of all his clothes and in work mode. He handed her her legacy package, complete with her backstory, FBI badge, driver's license, and credit cards. His was already open, as if he'd been studying it. She settled at the table and after a moment, he spoke.

"At least they kept us as partners, right?"

Sarah shrugged. "It makes sense. Gotta make us being reassigned together not throw up any red flags."

He gave her his patented crooked grin, the one that had never failed to make her weary. "Plus we make a hell of a team. Even in this fake file." He brandished their newest dossier.

"Yes, we _were_ a good team," she said, meeting his eyes dead on. "As long as you weren't going off on your own without telling me what you had planned. That can't happen this time around. I watch your back, you watch mine. I need to be able to trust you."

He had the grace to drop his gaze. "You can trust me, Sarah. I know I screwed up with the Intersect mission. It won't happen again. You can still count on me."

"I really don't have much of a choice, do I?"

"I guess not," he admitted, "but I do have your back."

"We'll see," she said, giving his assertion the skepticism it deserved. "Let's go ahead and get going. I know it's a little early, but I'd like to case the restaurant a bit before we meet Reeves. Better safe than sorry."

"Yeah, sure thing," Bryce said, grabbing his keys from the dresser and holding the door for her. "After you."

The restaurant was nondescript from the outside—beige building, red awning, boxwoods flanking the entryway. Nothing sent up any warning signs, so they made their way inside. The place was unexpectedly gorgeous—vaulted ceilings, over-the-top floral arrangements, and muted lighting that would make anyone look good.

When they gave their names to the hostess, she walked them to a table near the back where Agent Reeves was sitting. The SAIC's photos had done her justice: Reeves didn't need lighting to improve her appearance. Her face lit with a smile as she rose to meet them.

"Agents Anderson and Williams, I presume?" The smile widened as she focused on Bryce.

"Good evening, Agent Reeves." Bryce took her hand in his. "Please call me Bruce, and this is my partner, Sasha." He nodded in Sarah's direction.

"It's great to meet you, Agent Reeves," Sarah said, shaking her hand in turn. "You're a legend back in Houston. It's an honor to be working for you."

For the first time in a long time, it alarmed Sarah how easily lies flowed off her tongue. Pretending to be someone she wasn't was part of the job—but the more time she'd spent with Chuck, who was so open and honest by nature, the more she hated concealing her true self behind layers of falsehoods.

"I think we can dispense with the formalities for now. Outside of the office, Juliette will do just fine. Please, sit," Agent Reeves said.

Without looking at each other, Sarah and Bryce took their places—Bryce to the SAIC's left, Sarah across from her. The agent gestured at a bottle of pinot noir in the middle of the table. "I hope you don't mind—I took the liberty of ordering a little something. The baked bufala milk ricotta with summer squash and cherry tomato is divine—and so is the lobster. I thought we could sample a few things as we got to know each other."

"Perfect," Bryce said, leaning across the table and picking up the bottle of wine. His arm brushed Juliette's as he topped off her glass. "This is your town; we're newcomers. I must say, I think you picked a fabulous place for our initial meet-and-greet."

Juliette smiled, sipping her wine. "So, I've read through both of your files and I have to say, I'm quite impressed. You've accomplished more in your short time with the Bureau than most agents do at retirement. Tell me, what's your secret?"

Folding her hands on the table, Sarah shrugged. "It's pretty simple, really. Trust your partner, your SAIC, and your instincts. Everything else works its way out in the wash." Of course, at this point she trusted nothing but the latter—but her instincts would have to see her through.

Bryce gave Juliette Reeves his most ingratiating smile. "I couldn't agree more. A lot of agents I've met always speak of God and country, but when the shit hits the fan, my loyalty is to my team. That has to come first. The country's loyalties to us—those in the line of fire—they change with the wind. With each new administration, we have to relearn our mission statement. Teams stay true to one another no matter what those changes entail."

Sarah had to hide her grin behind her glass of wine. Bryce was more comfortable working as a lone wolf than anyone she'd ever met—herself excluded. His loyalties were to himself and his missions—in that order. Still, he'd always been able to read people well, and apparently Juliette was no exception.

"Well said, Bruce," she said, eyes bright with approval. "I like the way you think. As your SAIC, I can assure you both that we look out for one another. Nothing will come before our loyalty to each other. You have my word on that."

"That's really good to hear," Sarah said, looking Reeves over carefully. The SAIC's emphasis on loyalty felt a bit too fervent—as if she wanted to make sure that Bryce and Sarah believed every word she said.

"I'll give you your caseload in the morning and let you both get up to speed. Until then, let's eat," Juliette said as the waiter arrived with their appetizers and handed each of them a menu.

The rest of the meal was pleasant enough. She and Bryce played their parts to the hilt, as they'd been trained to do, and Bryce flirted with Juliette just enough to pique the agent's interest, never crossing a professional line. Sarah was pleased to see his ploy was working; Juliette glanced back at him with similar enthusiasm, her gaze always lingering on Bryce's face a moment longer than necessary. Even though she and Bryce weren't together and would never be again, Sarah couldn't help but wonder if she'd feel jealous to watch him setting a honeytrap for another woman right in front of her eyes. She didn't, though; instead, she felt relieved that her plan was likely to succeed and thrilled that Bryce's attentions had found another outlet.

Throughout the meal, Sarah looked up several times to see Bryce's eyes on hers, a rueful expression on his face. As soon as he noticed her watching, he glanced away—but she couldn't help but wonder what he was thinking. Was it possible he wanted to be with her again for reasons above and beyond the "partners with benefits" rhetoric he'd always spouted?

Surely not—he'd never given her any cause to think he had actual feelings for her. If he'd had them back then—if he still did—that would make their situation complicated in a way she wasn't sure how to entertain.

Back at their hotel, stepping into the elevator, Bryce spoke. "So, what do you think of Agent Reeves?"

This was safe, familiar territory, and Sarah responded without hesitation. "I'm not sure yet, but something's not sitting right with me. I was glad you responded the way you did about your loyalties. Her response to that set off some alarm bells with me."

"I agree. We'll need to keep an eye on her. In the meantime, I'll keep playing my part." The doors opened on his floor and he stepped off, one hand on the frame to keep them from closing. "You want to stop by for a nightcap?"

There was a wistful tone to his voice that caught Sarah off-guard. Still, she knew how skilled he was at manipulating situations to his benefit—and the last thing she wanted was to give Chuck a reason to suspect that she was being anything other than truthful about her behavior where Bryce was concerned. "No thanks… but I'll see you in the morning. Wheels up at seven-hundred hours, okay?" she said.

"Sure," Bryce said, letting go of the frame. The doors whooshed shut, but he didn't walk away. The last thing she saw was him staring back at her, that same rueful expression on his face, as if a thousand words were locked behind his lips that he would never, ever say.

OoOoOoOoO

The casino was packed with what Chuck could only describe as extras from the cast of Oceans Eleven. Hoping he looked like he fit in, he tugged on his lapels, straightening them before Zondra could get her hands on him again. "If you expect me to hit the tables tonight, I'm gonna need a no-interest spy loan. You'd be shocked what a government super-computer pays these days."

Zondra reached toward him anyway, smoothing his curls. "Don't worry, _Charles_. The CIA staked us tonight. You'll have a hundred thousand to gamble with."

Chuck nearly choked. "Ah—um—a hundred thousand? No pressure, no pressure at all." He grabbed a drink from a passing server and downed it. The liquor pooled in his stomach, heating his blood.

"You like martinis, huh?" Zondra plucked the olive from his glass and popped it into her mouth.

Was that what the drink had been? He'd swallowed it too fast to tell. How ironic—martinis, the drink of choice for James Bond, world's most famous spy. "Can't stand 'em," Chuck said truthfully, setting his empty glass down on a countertop. "But Carmichael loves them. Shaken, not stirred."

Zondra stifled a giggle. "There he is. Let's go."

They headed toward the roulette table where Lon Kirk sat. With his nondescript dark eyes and rumpled, mud-brown hair, he hardly looked the picture of a billionaire. Then again, if Chuck had a billion dollars, he probably wouldn't need to care that much about his appearance, either.

As Zondra settled onto a seat next to Kirk, Chuck couldn't help but notice the way their host's eyes raked her body before settling on her face. It made his skin crawl. It went without saying that Zondra was gorgeous, and the dress only enhanced her charms. Still, she was a person who had arrived at Lon Kirk's table with another person—namely, himself. Kirk didn't seem to care about Zondra's essential humanity or her choice of companion. No wonder CIA agents often found it easy to seduce their marks.

He cleared his throat, sitting down beside Zondra. "Roulette, huh? My favorite game aside from 'Call of Duty.' Chips, please," he said to Casey, who was working Kirk's table. What a pleasure it was to turn the tables and tell the NSA agent what to do for a change.

"One hundred, sir," Casey said, handing the chips over. "Good luck. Don't lose it," he muttered under his breath, somehow managing to boss Chuck around despite the fact that he was the one dressed as casino help and passing out chips.

"I don't believe we've met before," Kirk said, extending his hand to Chuck. "I'm Lon Kirk, the host of this evening's event. I know the people of Taiwan are deeply appreciative of your generosity."

Another martini had mysteriously appeared at Chuck's elbow, courtesy of a prescient server. Chuck took a sip, repressing a wince, and shook Kirk's hand. "Oh, well, cheers. The name's Carmichael, Charles Carmichael."

Zondra shot him a dirty look—maybe he was taking this James Bond thing too far? Ah well, too late now … and Kirk didn't seem to notice, besides. He was too busy ogling Zondra.

"Pleasure. And your stunning companion," he murmured, kissing her hand.

"Zondra Rizzo," she said, without a hint of disgust. "Pleasure."

"Indeed," Kirk said in an oily tone that made Chuck want to slap him. He restrained himself by thinking how much worse it would be if Sarah were the one sitting beside him—if, for the sake of their cover, he'd had to watch this creep fawn all over her like she was a well-paid escort.

While Chuck was fuming, Zondra had been busy asking Kirk questions about his interest in Taiwan. "Isn't that something, Charles?" she cooed, grabbing Chuck's arm and snuggling up to him.

"Oh, absolutely," Chuck said, hoping he hadn't agreed to something in that was direct opposition to one of the few moral standards he still hadn't violated. The past few months had played havoc with his value system.

"Three on red. I always bet on red," Kirk went on. "Because it reminds me of the pain and suffering in the world."

As Morgan might have said in his younger, equally non-eloquent years: Oh, barf.

"Wow, that's pretty noble of you. Right, honey?" Zondra cuddled closer still, and Chuck couldn't help but feel like he was letting Sarah down. She would understand, he told himself. This was work.

Would he understand if Sarah was cuddling up to Bryce like this, even in the name of work? Or would he think that she could've found another way to get the job done?

"Any other bets?" Casey said, glaring at Chuck like he'd already screwed up somehow. In other words, Chuck thought, business as usual.

"Mm-hm. I'm in. Fifty on red as well. I always say when in Rome, do as the Romans do. So here's to you, Julius." He held up his martini, toasting Kirk, then Casey.

"Are you sure you want to risk that much, sir? Don't wanna reconsider?" There was a slight growl to Casey's voice.

"Nope," Chuck said, smiling cheerfully at the NSA agent, who scowled harder. "I'm good."

"Fine. All bets are in." Casey waved his hand across the table, looking like he'd rather wrap it around Chuck's neck instead.

"Come on, red," Chuck said, sinking into his part. "Red, red, red. Come on, honey. Cheer for red."

"Go, red!" Zondra said, wrapping her hand around Chuck's bicep. He fought the urge to make a muscle—not that he had all that much muscle to make.

"Three red," Casey said, sounding shocked.

"Oh my God!" Chuck said, excited despite himself. "I just won $50,000! I—I mean, aw, damn, we won. And took food out of the mouths of starving Taiwanese children. I don't know whether to cheer or weep."

One of the Ocean's Eleven extras sidled up to Kirk and whispered something in his ear. "If you'll excuse me," Kirk said, giving Chuck the evil eye and getting to his feet. On his way past Zondra, he winked.

"Did he just _wink_ at you?" Chuck said, caught between indignation and dismay at Kirk's unbridled cheesiness. The hell with underwriting the Taiwanese economy—the man could be the next face of Velveeta's marketing campaign.

"Did you really just win $50,000?" Zondra said, dropping the cuddly act and looking as surprised as Casey'd sounded.

"Why is that so hard to believe?" Settling firmly in the indignation camp, Chuck divided his glare between Zondra and Casey.

"Psst," the latter said.

"Is that a new grunt? Number 77, sibilance with a side of irritation? Because I'm afraid I neglected to put my Macho Brute Lexicon in the pocket of my tux—"

"No, you moron." Casey looked more aggravated than ever. "_Psst._" He nodded in Kirk's direction.

Chuck followed the NSA agent's gaze and found Kirk talking to a man in the corner of the room. The Intersect took hold of his brain, images flipping by almost too quickly to process. "Oh, wow. Kirk's talking to Rashan Chen. Taiwanese attaché to the premier. He's dirty. They're using the charity as a front to launder counterfeit money."

"Damn it," Zondra said, surprising Chuck—maybe she had a big heart after all? "I guess I should go over there and see if I can find out what's going on. Chuck, maybe you should stay with Casey."

_Stay in the car, Chuck. Don't move, Chuck. Sit at the table and gloat over your winnings, Chuck. _"Fine," he said, and turned to see one of Casey's eyebrows raised.

"What now? Because I didn't bring my Eyebrow Interpretation Lexicon either. Is that 'you look surprisingly dashing in a tux, Chuck?'Or 'once again, you've failed to interpret important clues in a timely fashion, Chuck?'Or—"

Casey drew his index finger delicately across his own neck in a not-so-subtle signal for Chuck to shut up or die. Possessed of a strong survival instinct, Chuck obeyed.

"I was going to say, not a bad bet, Bartowski. Maybe we'll let you keep some of the winnings."

"Can we? Because, you know, I don't get paid for this whole get-a-computer-downloaded-into-your-brain-and-risk-your-life deal. No salary, no 401K. Seems like a fair trade."

Casey grunted—definitely number four, exasperation with a side of my-kingdom-for-a-moment-of-silence—and shoved his winnings across the table.

Taking the hint, Chuck took the chips. Standing, he caught a glimpse of Zondra rubbing up against Kirk. "Wow. That's kinda demeaning to her, don't you think?"

"Relax," Casey said, bored as ever. "She's just doing her job."

"Well, her job sucks," Chuck said, and went to cash out his chips.

OoOoOoOoO

Zondra drove the two of them home in her Jeep Cherokee, one hand on the wheel and the other resting on the gear shift. The hell with spycraft—Chuck was amazed at the way she'd been able to get in and out of the Jeep without flashing anyone or ripping a seam. The woman had talent.

"So, uh, what did you and Kirk talk about? Did you find out anything?" he said as they pulled up in front of the apartment complex.

"No," Zondra said, whipping the Jeep neatly into a spot, "but he invited me to his yacht tomorrow afternoon."

Ugh. "Okay. What time should we be ready?"

She turned the car off and opened the door. "I'm sorry, Chuck, but it'll just be me tomorrow. I really hate these types of assignments, but we need to figure out what he's up to. I have to get close to him."

"Zondra," Chuck said as they got out of the car and started walking toward the courtyard, "we're partners, right? And working on becoming friends?"

"Of course."

"Well, as your partner and almost-friend, I don't think it's the best idea for you to go to his yacht alone tomorrow. It's not that I don't respect you or that I don't think you're great at your job. But this guy is a scumbag and it doesn't seem safe—or necessary—for you to risk yourself that way. Why didn't you come to me first, at least to talk it over?"

She sighed. "Chuck, I know you don't understand this kind of work, but sometimes we have to make sacrifices for the greater good."

He came to a stop in front of the fountain and looked her in the eye. "Do me a favor. Don't patronize me, and I'll return the favor. You may be dressed like expensive sex to get this job done, but I know you're still smart as hell and a kick-ass fighter. I don't underestimate you no matter what you're wearing or how you choose to act. Please do me the same courtesy."

"Chuck, I didn't intend—"

"Hold on. I'm not done. I may not understand everything about your line of work, but you don't have a solid grasp on the Bartowski School of Life. We always look after our friends and family." He shoved his hands into his pockets. "Here's another thing you might not know. I set up the computer systems on Kirk's yacht just this morning. I can gain control of everything with a couple key strokes. Audio, video, and anything else we could think of. Hell, I could take over the navigation systems if I wanted to."

"You're serious, aren't you?" Zondra said.

"As a heart attack. The greater good can go screw itself for all I care. I don't care what the situation is. Agents shouldn't have to be used like that. Hell, _you _shouldn't have to be used like that. Trust me, and I'll do my best to trust you."

She smiled at him, a genuine grin that reached her eyes. "Okay, Chuck. We'll play it your way for now. I'll call and cancel first thing in the morning. I have to admit, I'm not used to someone else looking out for me."

"Get used to it," Chuck said, smiling back to take the sting from his words. "It's what friends do. I'll talk with you tomorrow, okay?"

"Sure." She fished in her clutch for her house key. "Goodnight, Chuck."

"Goodnight," he said, and watched to make sure she got into her apartment safely—kick-ass fighter or not—before he unlocked his own door and stepped inside.

* * *

As always, we want to know what you think! Please leave a review.


	5. Read In

Chapter Five … in which Chuck makes use of his secret identity, Sarah bares her soul, and Bryce makes an unexpected admission.

This chapter continues the Crown Vic arc and begins to diverge more sharply from canon. As we move forward, the storyline will continue to diverge, but the villains will remain the same.

Disclaimer: We don't own Chuck…

* * *

**Chapter 5: Read In**

Pushing the image of Bryce's dejected face out of her mind, Sarah showered and changed for bed. She'd packed one of Chuck's T-shirts that she'd swiped from his dresser after one of their fake date nights—she knew it was sentimental of her, but she'd wanted to take a small part of him with her when she left. The shirt was blue, with some kind of lumbering robot-alien on the front, and way too big for her. When she pulled it on, she was immediately comforted. It smelled like home, and made her smile.

Sitting cross-legged on the bed, she grabbed her phone and opened Chuck's app. There was a Chat option and a Video Conference option. Given how late it was, she chose 'Chat.' A spinning green wheel appeared on the screen, with the word 'Connecting' beneath it. Then the word morphed into 'Connected' and the Benny Hill theme song played, cracking her up. He was such a goofball.

_Hey. You awake? _she typed, trying to ignore the way her heart was pounding like a teenager's on her first date.

Chuck responded immediately, giving her hope that he'd been as eager to hear from her as she'd been to hear from him. _Yep… are you secure? Can we video conference?  
_

_Yes, _she typed back, thrilled at the idea of seeing his face, _but only if _you're_ secure.  
_

_Ok, give me five minutes.  
_

Her screen read 'Stand By' and then the Benny Hill theme song started to play again. Restless, she roamed around the room, tidying papers and clothes. Five minutes later, her phone buzzed, alerting her to an incoming video conference. She hit 'Accept' and Chuck's cheesy grin filled her screen.

His grin was about all she could see. Wherever he was, he was outside in the dark, his face lit only by the glow of his screen.

"Hi, Chuck," Sarah said, feeling her own cheesy grin spread across her face.

"Hey, Sarah." He took a deep breath. "It's so great to see you. Um—did you steal my shirt?"

She glanced down at herself, in the too-big, 100% nerd-certified T-shirt. "Guilty as charged."

His smile widened. "Well, it's adorable on you. Way better than it ever looked on me."

"You don't mind that I stole it?"

"I _love _that you stole it," he said, his voice husky. "But we better stop talking about what you're wearing, or I'll get really distracted."

She grinned like a Cheshire cat, "Distracted, huh? Can't have that. Where are you?"

"I'm at our park," he said. "On the swings."

Sarah felt her voice catch. "Our park?"

By the dim light of the screen, she saw him blink. "I hope you don't mind me calling it that. I just—I think of it that way now, after the talk we had last night. Just like our beach."

Tears stung Sarah's eyes, and she did her best to blink them away. "I've never had an '_our' _anything with someone before."

"Well, you do now. Our park. Our beach. Our bizarre relationship that I wouldn't change for the world—except to have you here with me."

How was he so open and loving, when the world could be so cruel to him? Sarah never thought she'd aspire to be like a nerdy super-hacker whose idea of self-defense was mashing buttons on a Call of Duty PlayStation controller, but she'd been as wrong about that, as she'd been about so many other things where Chuck was concerned. "I miss you so much," she choked out, hardly recognizing her own voice.

"I miss you too, Sarah." He sounded as emotional as she felt. "How are things? Can you tell me where you are?"

Wiping her eyes, Sarah pulled herself together. "I'll tell you anything you want to know, Chuck."

Silence, and then a surprised laugh. "Well, that's new. I don't know whether to check my ass or scratch my watch. Let's start with your location. I don't know how many shockers I can handle within 24 hours."

"Right now I'm in San Francisco," Sarah said with a snicker, tucking her hair behind her ears. "We've been tasked to flush out some suspected Fulcrum agents from a local FBI field office. Our first meeting with the special agent in charge was tonight. After that, I rushed back here to call you."

"How's Bryce?" Chuck sounded wary.

"He's fine. But frustrated. I told you, Chuck. You're my guy. You have nothing to worry about. Please believe me when I say he's not a threat to you. We're just working together. That's all it will ever be. I've even been able to kill the Andersons cover."

"Really?" Against the darkness behind him, she could just make out the fact that Chuck's eyebrows rose.

"Yep. Allow me to introduce myself. Special Agent Sasha Williams, at your service."

"Sasha, huh?" His head tilted, considering. "Hmm—I like Sarah much better."

"And she likes you too." Sarah sighed. "Look, Chuck, as soon as I get a chance, I want to come home to see you. I've been thinking a lot about us. You deserve to know everything about me. Not just my middle name. But I need to do it in person. It'll be tough for both of us, but I'm ready for you to know the real me."

He blew out a deep breath. "God, Sarah. That's all I ever wanted."

Sarah tried not to think about how Chuck would feel when he knew everything about her. Would he decide he didn't want anything to do with her? Would he turn her away? She had taken risks her entire professional life; maybe it was time she started to do the same in her personal life too. _Be brave_, she told herself. "I'll let you know as soon as I can get away. So. What's happened since I left? Did they send my replacement yet?"

"Yep, and I'm guessing you're not gonna like it. Agent Zondra Rizzo arrived this morning."

She had to fight the urge to throw the phone at the wall—or impale it, the way she had the alarm clock. "That _son-of-a-bitch_. What the hell is Graham playing at? Chuck, listen to me—you can't trust her."

"Sarah." His voice was calm, soothing. "I know all about her. I flashed as soon as she stepped through the door. But there were things—some details in the flash that didn't add up. I've already started to dig into some of it. The locations of the C.A.T.'s missions, the Gentle Hand's movements, some captured chatter, and a half a dozen other contradictory references. I'm not ready to say for sure yet, but I think she may have been framed."

Sarah shook her head, hair flying. "That's quite an assertion, given that I found the tracker in her boot myself."

"I know you did, but like I said, the Intersect's never steered me wrong," he said, pointing to his temple. "Just be patient, if you can. I'll let you know everything once I have something more concrete."

Panic set in. "I know she's a beautiful woman, Chuck. Don't let that sway you. I'm sure she'll try to seduce you. I've seen her do it before, with other marks. You need to watch your back."

She heard a creaking noise in the background—probably the swing. "I have eyes, Sarah, but you have my heart. You're the only one I want. Besides, I've let everyone know that I'm sick and tired of being viewed like a mark or an asset. Maybe Zondra started off seeing me that way, but I've made it perfectly clear that's not in the cards."

"So what _is _in the cards?" she said, hating how suspicious she sounded.

"We'll be neighbors, with the possibility of friendship. I talked her into it as our cover, and got the bosses to agree. You, of all people, should know I'm done with fake relationships. I don't have to lie to be someone's friend and it sounded like she could actually use one these days."

"Of course she could—because she's alienated all the ones she had by being a traitor." She tossed a pillow onto the floor with enough force that it skidded all the way into the bathroom. "Wait. Did you say neighbors? _Unbelievable_."

"Yeah. She took the apartment across the courtyard from mine. Nothing I could do about that … it was a done deal when she arrived."

"Of course she did." Sarah threw another pillow.

"You're jealous," Chuck said, laughter in his voice.

"I am not."

"Yeah, you are. And I can't tell you how good it makes me feel that you care enough to show it."

She was silent for a moment. Finally, she said, "Are you jealous of Bryce?"

He made a most un-Chuck-like sound low in his throat. "Of course I am. But I trust you when you say there's nothing going on. I need you to trust me, too."

"I do trust you," Sarah said, her voice small. "You might be the only person who fits in that category."

"I'm truly honored," he said, and she could tell he wasn't joking.

"So," she said, changing the subject, "have you been given any missions yet?"

"Yeah, there's a suspected counterfeiter in the area we had to check out. Lon Kirk. Looks like he's connected to Rashan Chen, the Taiwanese attaché to the premier. We attended a charity event tonight that Kirk hosted." He rolled his eyes.

"How did it go?"

She saw him shrug. "Besides having to talk Zondra out of seducing Kirk, great. I even won $50,000 at roulette that I'll never see a penny of. So, yay, me."

"Wow, not bad," Sarah said, laughing. "But how did you talk her out of running the seduction? I've never known anyone to be able to talk Zondra out of something once she set her mind to it."

"It really wasn't that hard. I just came up with a better alternative to her renting out her morals for the greater good—I'll break into Kirk's yacht's onboard computer systems. I'll have control of everything."

He sounded confident, which she loved—but it also terrified her. "But Chuck, won't that blow your cover? Maybe you should let her take care of this. You need to keep the Piranha off the radar."

"Hmmm." His mouth set in a firm line. "So if you were here, you'd seduce Kirk to keep my secret?"

She decided he was right—it did feel pretty good to have him be jealous on her behalf. "No, Chuck. Of course not. But this is different. This is her job. It's not personal."

"Maybe not. But I'd still feel terrible if I didn't offer her a better option. Plus, I already have an excuse for being able to pull this off. I installed the systems myself, just this morning. That's when I found the counterfeit bills."

"Okay," Sarah said, trying to keep the doubt from her voice. "Just be careful. Nothing can happen to you."

"Well," he said, that teasing note creeping back again, "surely something _could_."

"I'm serious, Chuck. I know you've got Casey looking after you, and—much as I hate to say it—Zondra, too. But when it comes to keeping you safe, there's no one I trust as much as myself. To them, no matter how much they might like you, it's just a job. But to me—" She bit her lip, trying to figure out how much to say.

"If this is how Casey acts when he likes someone," Chuck said, "then I'd hate to see how he acts when someone's on his shit list."

"He does like you," Sarah said, the words tumbling out before she could stop them. "I know he acts like you're a mammoth pain in his ass, but that's just his default MO. I think he's sorry about the way everything went down. Before I left, he sent me some video footage…"

Her voice trailed off, but Chuck was smart enough to figure out what she'd left unsaid. "You heard my conversation with Ellie, huh?"

Wordless, Sarah nodded.

"You don't have to say it back." In the dim light, she could see his throat move as he swallowed. "I thought I might never see you again. I just wanted you to know how I felt, in case I never got another chance."

"I can't tell you how much it meant to me to hear you say those words, Chuck." She drew her knees up, pulling the blanket around her. "I didn't know someone like you even existed. So many shitty things have happened to you, you'd have every right to be bitter. And angry. But you're not. You're kind and honest and open and … and brave. Braver than I am, for sure."

His laugh echoed through the phone line. "Me, braver than Sarah Walker, agent extraordinaire? How much did you have to drink at dinner tonight?"

"Don't make a joke out of it." She tucked the blanket closer, imagining he was next to her, holding her, giving her his goofy grin that somehow always made her feel like everything was going to be okay. "I just do my job, Chuck, what I was trained to do. But you make the choice every day to be the incredible person you are. Saying what you did to the camera—knowing who would see and hear it—that was brave. It's the kind of person I want to be."

He blinked, looking stunned. "I don't know what to say."

"Just know I'm missing you terribly," she said, sliding down to rest her head on the pillow. "And I'm going to keep doing everything I can on this end to make things right and make my way back to you."

She heard the squeak of the swings again as he got to his feet. "I think this is the best conversation I've ever had. But as much as I hate to say it," he said, glancing at his watch, "I've got to get back. I've looped the surveillance at Casa Bartowski. Right now, Casey will just see me playing video games, but it will start repeating itself in ten minutes, and the last thing I want is for him to get suspicious. Well, more suspicious, anyhow. I'll work on a better method to give us more time in the future."

She shut her eyes, breathing in the scent that clung to his shirt, imagining he was beside her. "I understand. You need to be careful. Good night, Chuck."

"Good night, Sarah." His voice was soft. "Sweet dreams."

OoOoOoOoO

If you'd asked Chuck the day before, he definitely would've said John Casey didn't have much use for romance. He was still halfway convinced that the NSA agent's decision to share the video footage of Chuck's confession was motivated by Casey's desire to show Sarah just how much of a chump Chuck was, and how much better off Sarah would be far away from the possibility of any sort of inappropriate romantic entanglement.

But, as Chuck stood in the alleyway of their apartment complex, trash bag in hand, he came to the inexorable conclusion that Casey did have one true love: His car.

The NSA agent was down on his knees, gliding a soapy sponge across the flank of a vehicle that looked like it hailed from the days of Magnum PI, with the sort of loving attention that most men reserved for intimacy with their significant others. Casey even had a soundtrack to match. He knelt, admiring his reflection in the car's trunk, then hummed in satisfaction and polished the bumper.

"Um," Chuck said, feeling as if he was interrupting a private moment, "nice car."

Casey got to his feet, raising a proprietary eyebrow. "Not just any car. It's a 1985 Crown Victoria. But like a lady, she doesn't like it when I talk about her age."

Dropping the bag into the trash, Chuck grasped for an appropriate compliment to pay the NSA agent's beloved. "I'm not really a car guy, so I don't really—pretty shiny though."

Casey stepped closer, his eyes glazed with a dreamy look Chuck had never seen in them before. "Oh, yeah, she's shiny. Four-point-six V8 engine. Hydro-glide transmission. Reupholstered the prisoner-containment area. Even installed a state-of-the-art GPS tracking system in the license plate. Can locate this baby anywhere in the world in less than a minute."

_Reupholstered the prisoner-containment area? _Sweet Jesus. First of all, who felt the need to outfit their personal vehicle with a prisoner-containment area? And second, what kind of man left Cheerios spilled on his couch cushion for weeks but felt the need to reupholster said containment area—an action that was surely not for the benefit of the prisoners it contained?

John-Freaking-Casey, that's was who.

"That's great. That's really great, Casey," Chuck said, backing toward his apartment.

"We could buy five more just like her with the money you won on one spin last night," Casey said, his lips rising in what appeared to be a genuine smile.

"_We?_ I knew they weren't gonna let me keep the winnings. How did I know that?" Chuck sighed. "So, what exactly is the mission on Kirk's boat today?"

"That's simple. Rizzo gets close to Lon Kirk by any means necessary." Casey sounded bored.

"Wait. You're saying you'd let her go down there, with Lon Kirk, alone? I mean, do you have an idea of what kind of message that gives?"

"Yeah, and I hear Agent Rizzo can be quite the giver," Casey said, but his heart wasn't in the innuendo. His eyes drifted back to his car—the object, Chuck had begun to suspect, of any romantic intentions the NSA agent might harbor.

"That's good to know, I guess. And I'm really happy for her, but it sounds like you haven't been told."

"Hmm," Casey said, picking up the sponge and dipping it into the soapy water again. "Told what?"

"That I came up with a better plan. One that doesn't involve putting our new partner in unnecessary danger." He folded his arms, a sense of gratification filling his chest as the NSA agent turned to look at him, eyebrow raised, sponge dripping, and an unmistakable look of confusion on his face.

OoOoOoOoO

Sarah woke with mixed feelings. Last night's conversation with Chuck weighed heavy on her mind. She knew Zondra well. They'd been best friends before Sarah had found the transmitter in Zondra's boot, effectively ending the C.A.T. Squad and their friendship. She knew how competent an agent Zondra was—almost as good as Sarah herself. Zondra had all the skills needed to protect Chuck, but would she? Sarah still didn't trust her. Sure, Zondra had taken a lie detector test administered by the CIA and passed, but that gave Sarah little solace. Sarah also had the skills to pass one of those tests, while lying through her teeth.

After flashing on Zondra, Chuck didn't think that she was guilty, and that counted for a lot with Sarah—more than any lie detector test the CIA could administer. Chuck was brilliant—the best 'analyst' Sarah had ever worked with. Still, she worried his opinion was colored by Zondra's charm and wit. Sarah knew better than anyone how easy it was to genuinely like her.

And that was Sarah's other problem: Much as she hated to admit it, she _was_ jealous. Zondra had always been able to seduce any mark she laid eyes on. She was beautiful, intelligent, and knew exactly which buttons to push to have any man eating out of the palm of her hand. Was Chuck smart enough to see through her guise?

Worse still—what if Zondra fell for Chuck? She knew all too well how easy it was for that to happen. All it took was a little time staring into his big brown eyes and radiant smile to get trapped. Once his charm set in, it was all over.

_Shit, shit, shit_. Now she was spiraling—and running late. She had to meet Bryce in the lobby in twenty minutes and start their first day at the FBI field office. It was time to clear her head and get her day started.

As she stepped off the elevator, right on time, she spotted Bryce fidgeting with a set of keys. He held them up. "Our new chariot awaits. An Escalade. Not too shabby. At least the Bureau has style," he said, jingling the keys in anticipation.

"Then I'll let you know how it handles," Sarah said, holding out her palm.

"Aw, come on."

"I'd like to get there in one piece," she said with a raised eyebrow.

He sighed and handed the keys over. "I feel like we've been having this argument for years. Just like old times, huh?"

Sarah rolled her eyes and they walked in silence to the SUV. She'd pulled into traffic and they'd been driving for a while when he cleared his throat. "Sarah—I owe you an apology."

She almost lost control of the car. "Come again?"

"I know it's not my style, but in this case, it's long overdue."

Sarah glanced over at him. "I'm listening."

"Things between us are awful—a mess. Half the time you look at me like you hate me, and I can't blame you. Last night, when I got back to my room, I sat down and thought about everything. I assumed you'd want to be with me again … that you'd want to go back to how things were. That finding out I was alive would override anything else you were pissed about. But that was selfish of me. You were happy with your assignment. More than that, you were happy with Chuck. And you're stuck with me right now because I didn't think about any of that. I didn't think of anyone but myself."

"I'm sorry," Sarah said, taking a sharp left onto a side street. "I'm not sure who I'm talking to right now. What have you done with Bryce?"

He ignored this. "I owe Chuck an even bigger apology than the one I owe you. I pulled him into this mess against his will. I've ruined his life, more than once—first at Stanford, and then with sending him that damned email. I didn't even think about his cover with you when I landed on his doorstep on Thanksgiving. With his family and his friends there—not to mention you—it was foolish and selfish." He fell silent. "And when I kissed you—"

"We don't have to talk about that. It's over and done with."

"No, we do." His hands clenched into fists on his thighs. "I assumed you felt the same way about me as I do for you. It was arrogant, I know. I'd left you without telling you what was going on. It was a betrayal of what we had. I'm so sorry for that. What can I do to make this better? I'll do anything."

"Wait a minute. Back it up. What we had? You're the one who always said we were just partners with benefits—that relationships were a waste of time for people like us. Are you saying—what exactly _are _you saying?"

He sucked in so much air, she was surprised there was any left in the car for her to breathe. "I know I said that, Sarah. And I had my reasons. To tell you I had real feelings for you and have you laugh in my face … not only no, but hell no. Beyond that—I didn't want to admit to myself that I was falling for you. I screwed up, again and again. First I left you, then I lost you, and then when I found you again, all I thought about was what I wanted. I get why you're furious with me."

Sarah's head was spinning. "I don't know what to say." Hadn't that been Chuck's line just last night?

"Say you believe me." He leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. "Tell me what to do to make this right."

She pulled into the field office's entrance and headed toward the checkpoint. "It doesn't matter if I believe you or not. You're right, you owe Chuck a hell of a lot. Make things right with him, and you'll make them right with me, too."

"I will," he said, his eyes fixed on her face. "I promise. After all, I love him too."

OoOoOoOoO

It was Chuck's day off at the Buy More, but there was no rest for the weary. He still had to spend the morning working with a NSA field tech to gain access to the internal systems on Kirk's ship. Casey and Zondra lurked over his shoulder as they worked, irritating Chuck to no end. He could have had everything set up in minutes, but to protect his secret as one of the world's most gifted hackers, he let the field tech do things his own way, which meant only asking Chuck for the system specs and protocols he'd used.

Once the NSA tech had control of the security system, Casey summarily dismissed Chuck—probably because Casey didn't want to have to look out for him while coordinating with his team of NSA agents. It pissed Chuck off. This was _his_ plan, and if something went wrong, he'd feel guilty if he could've done something to help. He was also tired of being shunted aside. He knew his worth and it was high time his team started to value his contributions. He just needed to devise a way to stick around.

Suddenly, he had an idea. It was still early, they were on a stakeout of sorts, and who didn't love fresh donuts? He took off in the herder and was back within 30 minutes, a tasty box of goodies in hand.

As Chuck approached, Casey and Zondra were flipping through the camera feeds from the yacht's security system. They were chatting in hushed tones, laced with frustration. As he got closer, they heard him and spun, guns pointed.

He held up the donut box in self-defense. "Hey, hey, hey. Don't shoot, put the guns down. You can both have the jelly-filled. I bought extra."

Zondra looked exasperated. "What are you doing back here, Chuck?"

"I thought you guys might be hungry." He shrugged, lowering the box. "You know, a friend-to-friend kind of a thing. You also might need my help with the ship's systems in case something happens. Nerd, remember?" He pointed at himself.

"Oh, that's it," Casey said, knocking the box from his hand. "Think you might get a chance to get your geek on? Well, there's nothing you can do to help this time, moron. Your brilliant plan didn't take into account that Kirk's security system was only set up to monitor secure areas of the ship. See?" He stepped aside, showing Chuck the feeds from the yacht. "Kirk obviously knows where they are and how to avoid them if he doesn't want to be watched. It's his ship, for Christ's sake. He's been on the phone with someone this whole time and we can't see or hear a damn thing. Okay? So you can beat it, Bartowski."

Chuck felt his stomach sink.

"It's not the end of the world, Casey. I can still call Kirk and go with our original plan," Zondra said.

"What? No. You can't do that. We talked about this, Zondra," Chuck said. "We'll find another option."

"Chuck, it's my job," she protested. "I'm trained for this."

"Your _job_ is to protect people, including yourself. It's too high a price. Don't do this." He ran a hand through his hair, rumpling it.

"Look, I think it's sweet you're so concerned—" Zondra began, but Chuck tuned her out as a guy passed in front of the camera feed, carrying a crate with Chinese writing on it. The Intersect flashed, dominating his vision.

"Oh, my God. That crate that guy is carrying—"

"Chuck, what is it?" Zondra said, her tone shifting from patronizing to all-business.

"They're loading counterfeit plates onto that boat. They're hidden in crates marked as aid medicines."

"What?" She sounded shocked.

"Yeah, I just flashed on a crate they brought onboard." He closed his eyes, remembering.

"This guy's important, Chuck. We can't be wrong." Casey set the donut box down and glared at him. "You sure?"

"I just flashed. I'm sure, okay?"

Casey gave him a long look. "Okay," he said into the comm system. "This is Casey. We're going in. Rizzo, stay with Bartowski."

At least Chuck wasn't the only one who was getting asked to stay behind this time. Through the monitors, Chuck and Zondra watched as Casey and his team of agents raided Kirk's yacht.

It was, Chuck thought, just like every action movie he'd ever seen—guns pointed and feds in uniform yelling, "Federal agents. Nobody move. Get down."

Lon Kirk spun, confusion stamped on his face. "Excuse me. What's the meaning of this?"

"Don't move!" the agents yelled in unison, but Kirk seemed undaunted.

"Who are you people?" he asked, as if he had indeed stumbled onto a movie set by mistake.

"NSA," Casey said, laconic as ever. "Stay right there and let us do our job."

"Your job?" Now Kirk sounded indignant. "Do you have any idea who I am?"

"Open it," Casey said, gesturing at the crate.

"That crate is a bonded humanitarian shipment certified by the United Nations. It's illegal for any of you to open it," Kirk retorted.

Casey slipped a hand into his pocket. "I can make some phone calls. I hope you don't mind waiting."

It was Kirk's turn to glare. "Oh, I do, so we won't." He grabbed a pry bar and levered the crate open, heedless of the multiple weapons pointed in his direction. "Medical supplies, for the earthquake victims of Taiwan. I wanted to deliver it myself. We leave tomorrow. Now, if I can get your names and agency affiliations, I want to make sure everybody is properly accounted for when I speak to your bosses' bosses later this evening."

OoOoOoOoO

The field office was a modern building with twenty-one floors. There was signage that read 'Phillip Burton Federal Building and United States Court House' on the left and right sides of the building, next to the front doors by the street. The windows were slightly tinted, creating a mirrored effect that reminded her of the way Casey wore his Top Gun glasses while doing recon to hide his eyes. She allowed herself a second to smile at the thought of home.

Sarah made it through the checkpoint, pulled into the office's underground parking lot, and found a spot right near the sub-entrance and elevators. She and Bryce got out of the car and took the elevator to the thirteenth floor—the CIA didn't put much stock in superstition—where a red-haired receptionist greeted them. Her name plate caught Sarah off guard. It was just too ironic.

"Good morning 'Greta,'" Sarah said, unable to suppress her smile. "We're here to report for duty. I'm Sasha Williams and this is my partner, Bruce Anderson. I believe Agent Reeves is expecting us."

"Good morning. Yes, she's waiting for you in her office," the woman said, smiling back. "You're right on time. Once you go through those doors there, she's the last office on the right. You can't miss it. Here are your security badges."

She handed Sarah hers, then gave the other badge to Bryce, who winked at her and slipped the lanyard over his head. "Thanks, Greta," he said.

"Just can't help yourself, can you?" Sarah muttered as they buzzed themselves through the door.

"Hmmm?"

"You'd flirt with a farm animal if you thought it might prove useful down the line." She shook her head. "Anyway, here we are."

Reeves' office reminded Sarah of a fishbowl—all glass. She was on the phone but waved them in anyway.

"No, that won't be necessary," she said as they stepped inside. "I have just the team for that assignment. As a matter of fact, they just got here. I'll call you back once we have more information. Okay, I will. Take care."

She hung up the phone and stood to shake both their hands. "Sorry about that. It's good to see you again, Agent Williams. You too, Agent Anderson." Sliding back into her seat, she steepled her hands on her desk, which was clean except for a stack of files. "That was Agent Thomas Channing, my DSAC. He's the operational manager for investigations here. You'll both be reporting to him from time to time. Here are your case files."

Scooping them off her desktop, she handed them to Bryce. "I hope you don't mind hitting the ground running."

"Not at all, Agent Reeves," Bryce said, giving her the charming grin that had gone over so well at Aquarella. "We wouldn't have it any other way."

Sarah had to fight to keep from rolling her eyes. "No ma'am, it won't be an issue. Is there any order you want these cases worked? Any priority cases?"

Reeves settled back in her seat, pushing the chair back from the desk. "Actually, yes. Tom and I were just discussing one that needs to be put on the front burner. We have reports that a former Air Force intelligence officer is suspected of trying to steal thousands of classified documents to sell to potential buyers. Her name is Monica Whittaker. It should be the top file I just handed you."

Bryce glanced down at the stack in his lap, then handed the file to Sarah so she could take a look at it. "Understood," he said.

"She has many connections around the world in countries like China, Iraq, and Libya. We don't have anything on her yet. Just a few whistle-blowers with no hard evidence. That's where you two come in. You'll have any resources you need. Find out who her contacts are. Where and when do they meet? Anything and everything you can gather. We need a complete dossier on her and her contacts. Don't move in on her till you get the go ahead from either me, or Agent Channing. Are we clear?"

Finally, territory Sarah understood—a mission with a clear objective, no matter the fact that she and Bryce had an ulterior motive. A cover within a cover was familiar to her—even though she'd become increasingly uncomfortable about operating within a web of lies. "Yes, ma'am," she said, and Bryce echoed her.

"Okay, agents. Now get to work." The SAIC nodded at the door, dismissing them. They stood, turned in unison, and left.

OoOoOoOoO

Chuck was standing in the middle of his living room, hanging his favorite childhood ornament on the Christmas tree—Snoopy wearing a green-and-blue hat, mailing a letter to Santa—when the doorbell rang. Looping the ornament over a branch, he went to open the door.

Zondra stood on the doorstep, wearing a long-sleeved white shirt and jeans. "Hey, Chuck." She peeked her head around the door jamb. "Are you alone?"

"No," he said cautiously. "But Ellie's asleep after her double shift. Hang on." He stepped outside, closing the door behind him. "What's up?"

Zondra folded her arms across her chest. "What the hell happened today?"

All of the warm-and-fuzzy feelings he'd mustered from decorating the Christmas tree—something he'd hoped to have finished by the time Ellie woke up, as a surprise—faded away. "I don't know. I don't get it. I had a flash."

She frowned. "Look, I know you didn't like my original plan to get close to Kirk, but it _is_ my job, Chuck, and I take it seriously."

Bewildered, he stared at her. "What are you talking about?"

"Come on, Chuck. We both know what the deal is. You didn't want me to have to seduce Kirk since your plan didn't work out, so you decided to have a flash."

Of all the things he'd thought she might bring up, this wasn't even on the list. "What exactly are you implying? That I faked the flash? That I'm a flash faker?"

"I just think you let your emotions get in the way today," she said, regarding him with an expression he could only describe as pity.

"My emotions? I'm just doing my job, Agent Rizzo—which, I might mention, I didn't choose to get involved in nor do I get paid for. I have no idea what happened today with the flash, but I assure you that it had nothing to do with allowing my emotions to compromise my professional integrity." He glared at her.

She leaned against the wall of his apartment and kept talking, as if she hadn't heard a word he'd said. "I realize things have felt a little tense since I got here, Chuck. But you have to trust me to do my job, even if you don't like what that might entail. I can't help but think it's got something to do with your history with Walker."

Despite his best efforts to control his temper, Chuck felt anger begin to rise inside him. "Number one, I hate to flatter you, but things haven't been any tenser than usual, Agent Rizzo. Business as usual, just with a different cast of characters. Number two, I do trust you to do your job; I just feel as if sometimes the parameters of that job could be restructured in a fashion that would be more consistent with _your _professional integrity and the goals of the mission at hand. And number three, regarding Agent Walker—maybe we should be discussing your history with her, not mine. The same history you've conveniently omitted from our little chats. The history where you were accused by your best friend of being a traitor." He pointed to his head, feeling his face heat. "That history?"

Zondra's body slumped. "Yes, she accused me, but I wasn't the mole. What's done is done. Can we just not talk about it, please? It's not relevant to our mission here and it has nothing to do with your—_relationship_—with Agent Walker."

"Fine," Chuck snapped. "Absolutely. Consider the subject closed. The crazy thing is, I actually don't think you did it. Why else would I be looking out for you? But just answer me one little thing."

"Chuck—"

"You weren't ever going to mention your conflict with Sarah or her accusation that you were the mole, were you? Did you leave out that little tidbit of information because you didn't trust me to understand, or do you feel guilty about something that you're still not telling me? After all, _partners_ need to trust each other."

She straightened up, shoving her hands into her pockets. "Trust, huh? Well _trusting_ you with today's plan was a mistake. One I will not make again."

Spinning on her heel, she walked out of the courtyard.

OoOoOoOoO

Sarah and Bryce spent their first day at the FBI field office going over their case files and formulating a plan to present to Reeves for shadowing Monica Whittaker and her contacts. Something about this case was setting off Sarah's Spidey sense—a phrase she never would have used before she met Chuck. God, she was hopeless.

It also felt strange for Sarah to be coming up with cover stories for her cover. Ever since meeting Chuck, she'd become disillusioned by the layers of lies on which her life was built. The espionage and intrigue that used to excite her now made her feel like she was taking further steps away from him—from the honest, forthright way she wanted to live her life now. Her physical distance from him wasn't helping matters either.

At the end of the day, she made her rounds through the office, wishing everyone a good evening. Reeves' door was open, and the SAIC motioned Sarah inside.

"How was your first day?" Reeves asked, rifling through her file cabinet in search of something.

"Successful, I think. We've got a plan of action—are you available to meet in the morning to go over it?"

Reeves pulled out a file and began thumbing through it. "Sorry, Agent Williams. I'll be out of the office tomorrow. You can run everything by Agent Channing, though. He was meeting with some DOJ officials today, but tomorrow, he'll be available for operational planning. His office is right across from mine."

"Thanks, we'll do that. Have a great evening," Sarah said, heading for the door.

She found Bryce out in the reception area flirting with Greta. Wow. He really was incorrigible.

"Do you still need a ride?" she said, giving Bryce a raised eyebrow.

"Yeah. I was just waiting for you." He grinned at Greta. "See ya in the morning."

"Bye, Bruce," the receptionist said, returning the grin.

Sarah sighed. Was no one other than herself immune to his charms? She waved goodbye to Greta, who stared after Bryce with moony eyes until he and Sarah reached the door.

OoOoOoOoO

When Ellie woke that night, Chuck was pacing in the kitchen. He'd eaten half a sandwich, decorated half the Christmas tree, and felt like he was losing half his mind. He'd only known Zondra for a day and he was already on her shit list—not to mention the fact that she lived right across the courtyard and would be keeping a closer eye on him than a scientist on a microbe. So this was going to be his life for the foreseeable future … under scrutiny by a CIA agent who didn't trust him and a NSA agent whose operation he'd messed up. Well, screw that. It was time to clear the air with his sister and start taking back control of his life.

Ellie found him in the living room, staring morosely at a pottery ornament in the shape of a heart he'd made when he was six. "What's wrong?" she said, coming up beside him. "Oh, no. Did it break?"

He glanced sideways at her. "Did what—oh, the ornament. No, it's fine. I was just thinking we could go grab that bite to eat—you know, the one we talked about before. Are you hungry?"

"Yeah, I could eat. Let me put on something, I can't go out like this." She looked down at her T-shirt and pajama pants.

"Sure, but please dress casual. And wear some comfortable shoes."

She raised her eyebrows at him, but nodded. "Be right back."

A few minutes later, she reappeared, dressed in yoga pants and a blue Henley. "Ready? We can take my car."

"Sounds good," Chuck said, following her outside.

She slid behind the wheel. "Where should we go?"

"Head towards the beach on the 405. Remember the place near Santa Monica that we always went to when we were kids?"

She nodded. "Of course. The beach at night—that's kind of weird, Chuck."

"I need you to trust me, El."

"I do," she said, and started the car.

Chuck pulled out his phone and messaged Sarah through the app he'd installed. With any luck, she'd be able to be a part of this conversation too. Ellie was going to have a ton of questions, and he wasn't sure he'd be able to answer them all. Not to mention, with a situation like this, he needed all the backup he could get.

OoOoOoOoO

On their way to the Escalade, Sarah's phone chirped, giving a different sound from her normal messaging app. As Bryce got into the car, she walked around to the driver's side, glancing at her phone. It was Chuck's messaging app. She accepted his 'chat' request and immediately a message appeared.

_Are you secure?  
_

_Not yet, _she typed back. _Give me 20 minutes._

_Ok… I'm about to have my "talk" with Ellie. I thought you might want to be a part of that.  
_

Sarah's heart started pounding_. Yes, absolutely. I'll contact you when I get to my room.  
_

_Great, talk to you soon,_ Chuck typed, and then the app shut down.

Sarah dropped her phone into her purse and got into the car, ignoring the curious look Bryce sent her way. She was halfway to the hotel when he spoke.

"So, what's your sitrep, Sarah?"

"It's a little too early to tell for sure, but I have a feeling Reeves, Channing, and Whittaker are all connected in some way," she said, relieved that he wanted to discuss business. "I don't think it's a coincidence that Whittaker is suspected of dealing in top-secret intelligence. If we find out that the intel's source is from the DNI, we'll know we're on the right track to finding the Fulcrum agents looking for the chip."

"I have the same feeling. Along with tracking down Whittaker, we need to keep close tabs on the top brass here. We need to call in and get a tail put on Reeves and Channing," Bryce said, sounding nothing but professional. If he kept this up—and if he was sincere about making things right with Chuck—Sarah would be both amazed and thrilled. Either way, right now she was grateful.

"Agreed," she said briskly. "In the morning I've arranged a meeting with Channing to go over our operational plan. Reeves will be out of the office, so we'll need her movements watched. Call Graham when we get back and set it up."

"Roger that," Bryce said, and they fell into a companionable silence—the way they used to as partners, before the notion of 'benefits' entered the equation.

This time, when Bryce stepped off the elevator at the hotel, he gave Sarah nothing more than a pleasant smile. "See you in the morning," he said, without any innuendos whatsoever.

"Night," she said, and made her way to her room to contact Chuck.

Once again she sat cross-legged on her bed and opened the app.

_Are you secure? _she typed.

_We're almost there_, Chuck responded. _Stand by.  
_

OoOoOoOoO

Even though Sarah wasn't going to be physically present, the fact that she was going to be part of Chuck's conversation with Ellie meant the world to him. He felt a little less alone. Hopefully, once Ellie knew the truth, he'd have another person firmly in his corner.

"Are you going to tell me what's going on, or do I have to beat it out of you?" Ellie said, sounding disconcertingly like Casey.

"Please, Ellie," Chuck said, "try to be patient. We have a lot to tell you and I need you to keep an open mind."

"We?"

Chuck took a deep breath. "Yes, Sarah and I."

"She's back?" Ellie's voice dropped to a growl. "What the hell?"

"No, she's not back, but she wants to be here with us just the same." He held up his phone. "Please wait until we get there and Sarah joins us to ask any more questions. I promise we'll explain everything."

Ellie didn't say anything else, but from the way she gripped the wheel and the tight set of her jaw, Chuck could see she was having a hard time keeping her thoughts to herself. She pulled into a parking spot at the beach, then got out, shutting the door behind her.

"Okay, Chuck. Start talking."

"Hang on," he said, leading the way to his spot on the beach. "Okay."

They sat down and he opened the app, starting the video conference with Sarah.

"Hi Chuck," she said immediately, giving him a huge, happy smile.

"Hey, Sarah. Thanks for being here for this. It's—um, it's good to see you." The words felt oddly stilted, but he didn't feel comfortable expressing too much affection in front of Ellie, especially now.

"It's good to see you too. Both of you," she said, turning her head to look at Ellie.

Chuck's sister made a feral sound he'd never heard from her before. "Okay, I've reached the end of my rope. Can someone please tell me what the hell is going on?"

"Ellie, before we go any further, it's my responsibility to warn you that what you're about to hear could place you in real danger. Are you sure you want us to go on?" Sarah said, giving Ellie the full benefit of her eye contact.

Ellie snorted. "What the hell is she talking about, Chuck? What kind of danger? Why are you even in touch with her after what she did to you?"

"Things are more complicated than you think, Ellie," he said, putting a hand on her knee. "If you want to know the truth, you'll need to take on the risks, too. You won't be able to tell anyone else what you're about to hear. Not even Devon. It could literally be a life-or-death situation. Do you want us to keep going?"

Ellie's eyes flicked from Chuck's face to the screen. "As much as you're both scaring me right now, what choice do I have? I need to know what's going on. Yes, tell me everything."

"All right," Sarah said, and Chuck saw her square her shoulders. "Ellie, this all started when Bryce Larkin sent Chuck an email on his birthday. You see, Bryce works for the CIA and he was my partner before he supposedly went rogue, broke into a secure facility, and stole a computer database called the Intersect. Bryce was shot on his way out, but not before blowing up the facility housing the Intersect and emailing the contents of the database to Chuck. The email he sent contained all of our nation's secrets and was encoded into images that Chuck saw when he opened it. This process uploaded all of those secrets into his brain, making him the most important intelligence asset in our nation's history. I was sent to retrieve those secrets from Chuck, only to find out he'd uploaded them. I then became his handler slash protector along with Major John Casey of the NSA. My cover was Chuck's girlfriend so I could stay close to him and work with him on missions."

"Is this some kind of joke?" Ellie said, her voice cracking.

"I'm afraid not, sis," Chuck said. "I wish it was. But no."

They spent the next hour poring over anything and everything they could think to tell her about the Intersect project. They even included Zondra, her role in Chuck's life now, and Sarah's reassignment with Bryce. When the story wound down, Ellie just sat there in stunned silence.

"Ellie, please say something," Chuck said at last. "Now you're the one who's scaring _me_."

She wrapped her arms around her knees. "Sorry, Chuck, but this is going to take a while to unpack. It sounds like something out of one of those sci fi movies you like to watch. I'm having a hard time believing it's real, much less that you're caught up in the middle of it."

"Do you have any questions for us, Ellie?" Sarah said, her voice gentler than usual.

Ellie straightened up, looking more like the second mother who'd fight to the death to protect Chuck. "Really, _Agent_ Walker, I only have one question for _you_ right now. You've just spent the last hour basically telling me that you've been lying to me since the day I met you, but I'm sorry, no one's that good an actor."

"Ellie—" Sarah said.

"So here's my question," Ellie went on, as relentless as Casey on the trail of a mark. "Are you in love with my brother?"

"Come on, Ellie," Chuck said. "That's not fair to—"

"Yes," Sarah said, and burst into tears. "Since the day I met him."

For the second time in as many days, Chuck almost dropped the phone. "Wait, what?"

"Chuck, I fell for you a long time ago." She sniffed, wiping her eyes. "After you fixed my phone and before you started defusing bombs with computer viruses. So yes."

"I see," Ellie said, as if she were a lawyer cross-examining a witness rather than a neurologist on a deserted beach who'd just discovered that her only brother was an international intelligence asset. "Then would you please explain to me why we found you in Chuck's room kissing Bryce Larkin, of all people? If you love him, how could you do something like that—with someone like that?"

Chuck struggled to regain his self-possession. "Sarah, you don't have to explain any—"

"Yes, I do, Chuck. And not just to Ellie, but to you as well." She reached for the box of tissues on the bedside table and blew her nose. "I know we talked about this the other night, but you deserve a better explanation of what happened. Ever since I met you, I've been dreaming of a different life. I started asking myself some really tough questions. Do I want a normal life? A family? Children? When I imagined us together, the answer was consistently yes, and that scared the crap out of me, because, Chuck—I'm not normal. Hell, we're not normal. I'm a CIA agent—you're the Intersect. That's as complicated as it gets. Not to mention, I'm not nearly good enough for you."

"Sarah—" he began, but she shook her head.

"Let me finish. My past is so checkered, I thought there was no way you could love me if you knew the real me. I could never see a future for us, even though I dreamed about it every time I closed my eyes. Not because of who you are, but because of who I am." More tears streaked her face. "When Bryce kissed me that night, I thought it might be simpler just to go back to the way things used to be between him and me. I didn't want to be in love with you. It was hurting both of us."

Chuck opened his mouth to speak, then shut it again.

"In the end, it only took a millisecond to realize how much of a mistake it was," she said, wiping her face with the hem of her t-shirt. "Not only did I not feel anything for him anymore, but the betrayal on your face is all I can see when I close my eyes now, and it's killing me. So here I sit in a room by myself missing your curls so bad I want to rip out my own hair. And all because I don't have the first clue how to love you like you deserve." She blotted her eyes one more time, blew her nose, and started to sob.

"Sarah," Chuck said, but she shook her head, eyes downcast.

"I'm sorry, Chuck," she said, the words almost indecipherable through her tears. When he glanced over at Ellie, he saw his sister was crying too. "I'm so sorry."

"I forgive you, Sarah," Chuck said over the sound of her sobs. "And I love you too."

Sarah's head came up and she smiled through her tears. "I love you, Chuck. And you too, Ellie. You guys are my family."

"Oh, God, now I'm an emotional wreck. I can't take any more of this," Ellie said, brushing sand from her yoga pants. "Sarah, we'll need to talk some more about all this. I'm scared for my brother, but thank you for clearing the air. I've got a lot to think about, but we'll figure it out together. We're Bartowskis. We bounce back." She smiled at Sarah, and Chuck couldn't help but imagine that one day Sarah might be a Bartowski—that things would work out and they'd wind up together. The thought filled his chest with warmth.

"Thank you," Sarah said, smiling back at Ellie. "That means more than I can say."

Ellie slung her arm around Chuck's shoulders. "For now, I'm going to take Chuck back home. He's been off-grid for too long … is that the right way to say that?"

"Yes, Ellie. Perfect." Sarah dabbed at her eyes one final time. "Goodnight and I love you both."

"And we love you," Ellie said as Chuck closed the connection.

They sat for a moment in silence. Finally, Chuck said, "Are you okay?"

"I'm many things," Ellie said, squeezing his shoulder tight. "Overwhelmed. Confused. Concerned. But I can also see how much Sarah loves you, Chuck. Almost as much as I do." She gave him a tearful grin. "That kind of love … it gets you through when things get tough."

"Yeah," Chuck said, thinking of the way he felt better every time he saw Sarah's face or heard her voice—how adorable she'd looked in the t-shirt she'd swiped from his dresser and the indescribably wonderful way it had felt to hear her say she loved him. "It does."

"So." She let go of him and got to her feet. "I'm going to need a few days to get my head around all this and then we'll talk again. Come on, little brother of mine. Let's get you home."

OoOoOoOoO

Chuck woke up the next morning feeling as good about his life as he had since this whole mess started. He wasn't alone anymore. He now had two amazing women on his side and he loved them both dearly. After they'd gotten home last night, Ellie'd given Chuck a bone-crushing hug and gone to bed. It was going to take her some time to come to terms with their situation—but she was Ellie. She'd cope … and when she'd thought things through, whatever suggestions she came up with were only going to make life better.

Zondra's presence, on the other hand, was not helping matters. In his opinion, she was a liability. She didn't trust him, which made him, in turn, not trust her. That needed to be dealt with, but he wasn't sure how to approach it yet.

Of all the circumstances they'd discussed last night, he knew Ellie's biggest concerns were Graham and Beckman's threats against Chuck and herself. He'd seen the fear in her eyes when Sarah had brought it up. Sarah was better about hiding the way she felt, but Chuck knew she was worried too.

Chuck had already taken steps to protect them. The Piranha was in full swing. He had managed to capture the surveillance feeds to and from Casey's apartment as well as the incoming and outgoing traffic from his ISP. The encryption the NSA was using was really good, but not good enough to stop Chuck from cracking it. He was sending it all to an offsite backup and _his_ encryption was as close to unbreakable as you could get. He was hiding his tracks well. It always amazed Chuck what you could do with a VPN. They'd never know a thing. This was his insurance policy should things go south.

His next step was to hack Casey's cell. He wanted to make sure to capture those conversations as well. He trusted Casey, but knew the NSA agent was a dedicated soldier. He would always follow his orders, no matter how much he might disagree with them.

Beckman and Graham, on the other hand, he didn't trust. Chuck would spend the next few days utilizing the Buy More's resources to do a deep dive on both of their histories. He was confident that Sarah wasn't the only one in the alphabet agencies with a checkered past. He'd find out.

He sat at the Nerd Herd desk, combing through a file on Beckman's early days with the Air Force, when he looked up to see Morgan wearing an honest-to-God sailor's cap. The guy was just too much.

"Well, well, well," he said as Morgan approached the desk. "Looking good, Morgan."

Morgan doffed the cap in his direction. "Feeling good, Charles."

"And how was meeting Anna's parents?"

Morgan jammed the cap back on his head and hunched, as if trying to make himself invisible. "Uh, it was fine. You know, I think it went okay. Ish."

"Let's just say he wasn't the Morgan we've all come to know and love," Anna said, looking resigned.

Before Chuck could ask any questions about what had gone wrong—not that he was sure he really wanted to know—Big Mike came up to them, his eyes widening at the sight of Morgan in his hat. "Hey, Captain Stubing," he said.

"Morning, Michael," Morgan said cheerfully. "You know, I was thinking about focusing on the starboard side of the store."

Big Mike looked him over. "Huh. If you don't change into regulation clothing now, I'm gonna kick the starboard side of your ass."

"Why do people hate the rich?" Morgan said as Big Mike stalked off. "Hey, Chuck, speaking of starboard, Anna's parents invited us—or at least Anna—on a cruise with some of their big-shot Taiwanese friends. You should join us. Supposed to be some bigwig diplomats there. You should be hanging out with diplomats, Chuck."

If Morgan only knew. "Thanks, buddy. But I think I'm gonna stay landlocked tonight," Chuck said, his eyes drifting back to the computer screen.

"Oh, well, suit yourself." Morgan draped an arm across Anna's shoulders. "Ahoy," he said as he strolled off, presumably to change into clothes befitting a Buy More employee rather than Popeye the Sailor Man.

OoOoOoOoO

Sarah was vibrating like a happy, purring cat. As she lay in bed, she felt elated about her conversation with Chuck and Ellie last night. She'd cleared the air, as Ellie put it, and so much more. She was in love with Chuck Irving Bartowski and Chuck was in love with her. They were known to one another—and to Ellie. And that was the kicker, wasn't it? The bridge that was so badly burned because of that stupid kiss was being repaired. Sarah knew it was going to take time, but hadn't Ellie said she loved her too?

God, she needed to get back to _her_ family. The better things got between Chuck and herself, the worse her current situation felt. She didn't belong here. She really didn't belong with the CIA anymore either. She'd stick it out till Chuck was able to rid himself of the Intersect, and then she was done. For the first time in her life, she felt like she had a future worth fighting for. She had no idea what career might be next for her, but having the freedom to decide—and the desire to explore something new—felt amazing.

Sarah got up and readied herself for the day. She checked her watch. In five minutes, she had a briefing with Graham to go over their strategy to deal with Channing this morning, as well as ensuring Reeves' tail was a go. Shutting the door of her room behind her, she made her way down to Bryce's room.

"Morning," Bryce said, opening the door. She was relieved to notice that he was fully clothed, down to his shoes. "Here," he said, handing her a mug. "Have some terrible coffee."

She took the mug and swallowed, grimacing. "Hey, Bryce. Do you have everything set up?"

"Yeah, I set everything up last night before I hit the hay. Hang on."

They stood in front of Bryce's TV, waiting. Then Graham's face appeared.

"Agents," he said without preliminaries, "I agree with your assessment on Channing and Reeves. Their interest in Whittaker fits the profile we're looking for. I want you both to get close to them by any means necessary. Channing may be in his forties, but we've discovered he has an affinity for much younger women. Use this to your advantage, Agent Walker. And I trust you'll not have any trouble with Reeves, Agent Larkin?"

"No sir, no problem," Bryce said.

"I've also got a team on Reeves for today. They'll report her movements and contacts to you this evening."

Sarah cleared her throat. "Sir, are we to start leaking Agent Larkin's true identity and possession of the Intersect? That was part of the mandate when we started this mission."

"That will not be necessary," Graham said, shaking his head. "Bartowski's time as the Intersect is coming to a close. The new one will be on line shortly, at which time he will no longer be our concern. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have another meeting to attend."

Before Sarah could ask any questions or object, he cut the feed.

She sank down onto the edge of the bed and put her head in her hands. "This cannot be happening."

The mattress gave under Bryce's weight as he sat down next to her and rested a tentative hand on her back. "I'm not hitting on you, I promise. But what's wrong, Sarah?"

She sat up, incredulous. "Really? I was just ordered to seduce a mark for the first time since joining the Agency and now it sounds like Graham is planning on killing Chuck. That's what's wrong."

Bryce's eyebrows rose. "Wait a minute. You think he'd have him killed?"

"Do you think they'll let him walk around the Buy More with all of our nation's secrets in his head once they have an army of Intersected agents?" Sarah got to her feet and started pacing. "They don't care about him. He's just a liability in their eyes. They're more concerned with expediency than justice."

Bryce stood, looking determined. "Then we'll just have to make sure that doesn't happen. We'll find a way to protect him. And don't worry about Channing. We'll come up with an alternative that still gets us results. We just have to start thinking like Chuck. I've got your back and Chuck's too."

She came to a halt in front of him, letting him see the vulnerability in her eyes. "I hope you're right, Bryce. Nothing can happen to him."

"So we'll make sure nothing does." He put both hands on her shoulders and looked directly at her. There was nothing in his gaze but sincerity and resolve. "Come on. Let's get to work."

* * *

As always, we want to know what you think! Please leave a review.


	6. Detonation and Deception

Chapter Six … in which Sarah befriends another nerd, Zondra speaks out, and Chuck saves the day—only to discover a nefarious plot.

This chapter ends the Crown Vic arc and lays the foundation for our long-term strategy for Season 2. The balance of power between characters will shift, strengthening Chuck's role on the team.

Disclaimer: We don't own Chuck…

* * *

**Chapter 6: Detonation and Deception  
**

Chuck was helping out a customer when his phone alerted him to incoming IP traffic at Casey's apartment. It must be the daily briefing. Time to test out his capture and rerouting software. It felt good to know he hadn't lost his edge—but strange to be using his talents to spy on spies, rather than as part of the team. If he was openly able to leverage his technical and analytical skills, he'd be a far greater asset than just 'Chuck Bartowski, Intersect Host and Nerd Herd Supervisor.'

He made his way to the Chuck pen, knowing no one would bother him there, and connected to the offsite server from his phone. Sure enough, Beckman and Graham were online, speaking with Casey and Zondra. Chuck plugged in his earphones so no one else could overhear the briefing. He had control of the incoming video feed from Beckman and Graham, as well as Casey's camera. Aside from actually being there, it was as close as he could get to finding out what was going on.

Beckman was talking, and she sounded pissed. "Which part of 'handle Lon Kirk with caution' wasn't clear, Agents Rizzo and Casey?" she said, adjusting her collar like it was too tight.

"Chuck flashed, General," Casey said. "Our decision to raid the boat was based on the information we received from the Intersect."

"Except Chuck was wrong," Beckman said, her voice flat.

Zondra spoke up. "Kirk must have suspected he was being watched. He's probably hidden the plates somewhere else."

"Where?" Graham said. He stood behind Beckman, looming in a way that Chuck found distinctly threatening.

"We don't know," Casey admitted, sounding uncomfortable. Chuck wasn't sure he'd ever heard the NSA agent admit ignorance before.

"So you moved in, anyway." Graham's voice was accusatory.

"Is there something that might've caused Chuck to think those plates were on Kirk's boat?" Beckman said. "Anything that might have caused his flash?"

"No legitimate reason that I can think of," Zondra replied, and something in her voice made Chuck uneasy. He remembered her accusing him of faking the flash—would she stand up for him the way Sarah would have done, at the risk of failing to protect herself?

"Agent Rizzo, are you still in a position to get close to Kirk? Were you involved in the raid in any way? If I remember correctly, you were invited to spend the day on his yacht," Beckman said, which irritated Chuck all over again.

"No, I wasn't involved. I had to look after the asset during the raid. I should still be able to get close to Kirk. Earlier in the day, I came up with an excuse at the last minute when Chuck presented his plan. I shouldn't have agreed with his idea, but this was the first time I'd worked with him in the field. I'll know better next time." Chuck flinched at the contempt in her voice. "I'll call Kirk and see if we can reschedule. It shouldn't be an issue."

"Make it happen, Agent," Beckman said, her tone clipped. "The asset's false intel has us concerned, so until further notice, consider him benched." At that, she cut the feed.

Chuck kept the microphone and camera active so he could hear what Rizzo and Casey had to say. In some ways, their responses to the video conference mattered even more to him than the conference itself. Beckman and Graham might be the ones in charge—but Chuck had to live with the other two every day.

Casey surprised him. "Bang-up job, Rizzo—throwing Chuck under the bus like that. Who knew you had it in you. Just for the record, he's never steered us wrong before. I'll still be following Bartowski's instincts in the future. You might want to do the same. Something's not adding up here," the NSA agent said, glowering at Zondra. "And I intend to find out what it is."

"I don't know, Casey." She shrugged. "I feel like he might have his own agenda that doesn't align with ours."

Casey grabbed the remote control and started toying with it, doubtless cueing up his next Ronald Reagan documentary. "Don't forget, Rizzo, Chuck's not an agent. His only agenda is trying to stay alive until he can get the Intersect out of his head. The fact that he went out of his way to try to help you went against that agenda. Just food for thought."

Wow. Maybe Sarah was right about Casey liking him. Chuck had never imagined the NSA agent would go so far out on a limb to defend a guy that he spent most of his time mocking and calling 'moron.'

"I don't need his help," Zondra said, the scornful note back in her voice. "He's too emotional and he's going to end up getting someone killed. After this mission is over, I'll make that painfully clear to him."

Casey just grunted—Number 43, Chuck decided, disagreement with a side of why-the-hell-am-I-bothering-when-you're-gonna-do-whatever-the-hell-you-want-anyhow—and turned away.

Shaking his head, Chuck closed the connection. Casey was on his side—more than he'd ever imagined. This gave him hope, but Zondra was a different story.

OoOoOoOoO

When Sarah and Bryce arrived at the field office, Agent Thomas Channing was waiting for them near the entrance. He was a handsome man, a little taller than Bryce. His hair was starting to gray around the temples and his eyes shone bright green. He grinned when he saw her, baring his perfect teeth in a smarmy, lecherous grin.

"Ah, Agent Williams and Anderson, I presume?" he said, reaching for Sarah's hand.

"Agent Channing, I'm so glad to meet you," Bryce said, stepping smoothly between him and Sarah. "Agent Reeves speaks very highly of you. We're so glad to be working for someone of your caliber."

"Oh, well, you know—we do what we can. Please, let's step into my office and get down to it." He gestured, leading the way, and let them pass. Sarah didn't fool herself into thinking this was a chivalrous endeavor—she could feel the weight of his eyes on her ass. God, what a tool.

They stepped into his office and took the two chairs in front of his desk. Channing sat down, shifting some piles of paper to the side. "Agent Reeves tells me you spent yesterday formulating an operational plan to go after Whittaker," he said.

Perhaps if she went with an all-business approach, he'd follow suit. "Besides the standard surveillance package, we'd like to get taps placed on her phone lines. Both mobile and land. We're running into an issue due to the evidence collected so far, or lack thereof. It's just not enough to get the FISA warrants needed in court," Sarah said, laying out the first step in their plan.

"Fair enough," he said. "Agent Williams, I want you to contact Jackson Sanders. He's the office's analyst and tech support. He'll set up the taps you need. You let me take care of the warrants."

"Yes, sir. Besides that, I think we have the equipment we need." She turned to Bryce. "Bruce, do you have any thoughts or concerns?"

He shook his head. "No, Sasha. I think we covered everything yesterday. I'm anxious to get started."

"Great, well, if that's all—" Channing stood, shook Bryce's hand, and then turned to Sarah. "Agent Williams, if I may have a word."

"Sure," Sarah said, feeling uneasy. Whatever Channing had to say to her that couldn't be said in front of Bryce, she was sure she didn't want to hear it.

He cut directly to the chase. "Sasha, are you and Agent Anderson together? You see, I like to know the dynamics of my teams. It helps with interoffice issues that may arise."

_Seriously_? "I'm not sure I understand the question," Sarah said, playing dumb. "Yes, Agent Anderson and I have been partners for years. All the way back to Quantico."

"You misunderstand me," Channing said, coming around the desk to stand uncomfortably close to her. She took a step back, putting space between them. "Are you a couple?"

"I'm confused as to how that's relevant," Sarah said, straightening to her full height, "but no. That would be unprofessional."

"Good, good," Channing said, rubbing his hands together. "Yes, dating your partner would be unprofessional, but there are no rules about dating other fellow agents. You are quite beautiful, after all."

Had he really just gone there? "Thank you, sir. I'll keep it under advisement," Sarah said, exercising all of her willpower not to knee him in the nuts.

"Very well, Sasha. You're dismissed," he said, sitting back down behind his giant stack of papers.

"Agent Channing," Sarah said in return, and walked out the door.

OoOoOoOoO

Chuck sat at the Herder desk, eating lo mein and flipping through his phone, looking at pictures of him and Sarah. Damn, he missed her.

His phone pinged, indicating an incoming text. It was from Morgan—a picture of him on Anna's father's friend's boat, looking very hard as if he was trying to fit in. Grinning, Chuck peered closer—and saw some familiar crates in the background. A sinking feeling in his chest, he downloaded the picture from his phone to his computer to enhance it. Sure enough, these were the same crates he'd seen on Lon Kirk's boat—the ones he'd flashed on. He printed the image out to double-check. There was no doubt.

"Oh, shit," he muttered, dropping the chopsticks and jumping to his feet.

He scanned the store for Casey and found the NSA agent engaged in the only task at the Buy More—other than harassing Chuck—that gave him pleasure: Selling a Beastmaster grill to a customer. "This baby's got it all," Chuck could hear Casey saying as he approached. "Got four main burners—"

"Hey," Chuck said, cutting Casey off mid-sales pitch. "We need to talk."

Casey shot an incredulous look in his direction. "Later. I'm about to move a Beastmaster."

"No," Chuck said, standing his ground. "Now."

"Fine." Casey bit out the word, as if it tasted sour. "Be right back," he said to the customer, and then, in an aside to Chuck, "This better be good."

"It is. Morgan sent me a JPEG from the Taiwanese attaché's yacht. I uploaded it to my computer and used an X-TEL software device to break down the data into readable bytes."

"English, Bartowski. I don't speak nerd," Casey said, his eyes narrowing.

"Here." He handed Casey the printout. "I blew up the photo. The counterfeiting plates are on Rashan's boat, with Anna and Morgan."

Casey rolled his eyes. "These are the same crates as yesterday, the ones that got you benched."

"Did you just hear what I said? Morgan and Anna are on—" He abandoned that line of thought. Casey couldn't give two craps about Morgan or Anna. A mission, on the other hand, he understood. "Look, I'm right about this. The Intersect is right about this. Casey, these are the same crates I flashed on yesterday. Right here, on a boat with the Taiwanese attaché. The one arguing with Kirk. He's getting away with the plates."

"You think Kirk put the plates on Rashan's boat?" Casey said, giving the printout a closer look.

"Yes. Look, I know you have orders to stay away from this, but you have to believe me. The plates are on that boat, possibly with Morgan and Anna. I wouldn't be here right now if I wasn't a hundred percent sure."

Casey grabbed his arm, and Chuck emitted what he was sure the NSA agent would consider a most unmanly squeak. "What are you—"

The answer to his question was clear enough; Casey was dragging him toward the front of the store. "Let's go."

OoOoOoOoO

"So," Bryce said as they made their way down the hallway, "what did he need to see you for? My guess is a full-court press."

"Yes, he didn't waste any time." Sarah grimaced. "Apparently, there are no rules for interoffice dating. He made sure I was aware of that. No surprise there, given what Graham told us about him. What I found more interesting was his confidence about getting a FISA warrant without any real evidence. Hearsay usually doesn't pass muster in the courts."

"I'm sorry I wasn't able to run interference with him, but I think you're right—he's up to something." Bryce ran a hand down his face. "Let's find this tech guy and saddle up. I'm starting to feel like Whittaker's just a patsy of some type."

They walked through the office until they found his nametag on a cubicle in the very back. It read "Jackson Sanders—Signals Intelligence Analyst." When they got closer, they could see him hunched over his keyboard, typing away. Sarah cleared her throat and he looked up. When he saw her, his jaw fell and his eyes grew wide—but not in a creepy way that made her think of Channing. No—something about this guy reminded her of Chuck, even though he was short and round, not tall and lanky. He was bald, as compared to Chuck's curls, and wore thick glasses. Still, he was definitely a nerd, a quality that Sarah had come to find endearing.

He stood so quickly, he knocked over his chair. "Hel-hello," he stammered, his voice squeaky. "How can I, um, help you?"

Sarah could feel Bryce simmering with amusement that he was doing his best to contain. "Easy there, buddy. I'm Bruce and this is Sasha. Agent Channing sent us."

"Ah, yes. The phone taps." Sanders pulled himself upright, looking more in his element. "I've already taken care of the landline. Not really that hard, ya know? Hah—anyhow, this is a StingRay." He picked up a device from his desk and handed it to Bryce. "It's basically your very own miniature cell tower. The target's cell phone's IMSI identifier has already been programmed into it. When you're in range, the phone will automatically connect to the StingRay and you're in business. Your 'tower's' radio waves can also send a command to her phone's antennae—the baseband chip. You'll be able to tell her phone to fake any shutdown and stay on, turning it into a listening device, even when not in use. Now, you don't want to keep her phone running hot all the time. Just keep the phone on standby until you need to hear something. Of course, you can also use it to track her location."

Most of what he'd said had gone straight over her head, but she could tell a couple of things for sure: Sanders cared about his job, and he was talented. She remembered her first encounter with Chuck and couldn't help herself. "Wow, you geeks are good."

Jackson smiled back at her shyly but didn't disappoint. "Nerds. We prefer the term nerds, ma'am."

"I am so sorry—nerds, huh? I'll make sure to remember that. It won't be hard—some of my favorite people are tech geniuses like you." She smiled at him, ignoring Bryce's amused smirk.

Jackson turned bright red from his neck to his ears and sank back down into his chair as if his legs had given out. Sarah knew right then and there that she liked him. More than that—she had a good feeling about him. He could be an ally. "I do have a question," she said.

"Um, sure… anything," Jackson mumbled.

"Agent Anderson and I aren't all that great with these techno-gizmo thingies. Do you think you can work with us out in the field?"

Next to her, she felt Bryce give a small start—but he didn't say anything to contradict her suggestion. Over the years, they'd come to trust each other's instincts.

Jackson lifted his head and his face lit up. "Absolutely. I'm field trained. It'll be great to get out of this place and put my 'techno-gizmo thingies' to good use. Thank you, Agent Williams."

"Please, Jackson, call me Sasha," Sarah said, and he blushed again.

"Welcome aboard, sailor," Bryce said, smacking him on the back. It was more of a friendly pat than anything else, but the analyst winced anyhow.

"Thanks, Bruce. Just give me a few minutes to pack up some 'thingies.' I have some ideas that might come in handy," he said, looking over his desk.

Bryce gave Sarah a wide grin. "I like this guy."

OoOoOoOoO

They got out of Casey's car at the marina and the NSA agent immediately started jogging toward the boat slips. Chuck chased after him, struggling to keep up. "Casey," he panted, "why are you trusting me now, after I screwed up with that last flash?"

"Someone needs to protect the Intersect," Casey said, not the least bit out of breath.

"That's very thoughtful. Thank you very much, I guess," Chuck said dubiously.

"Plus, I didn't wanna miss any gunplay. Come on." The NSA agent stepped up his pace. Chuck could see Morgan standing at the front of Rashan's boat, his arms extended like Leonardo DiCaprio in Titanic. Then Chuck's eyes dropped to a device attached to the ship's hull and he flashed.

"Casey, there's a GPS missile tracking device on the ship. They'll blow it up," he said, panic flooding his voice.

"Kirk's got his money. He's gonna bury the evidence," Casey said—which was logical enough, but didn't make Chuck any less worried for his friend's life.

"I'm king of the world. King of the world," Morgan sang obliviously. "I'm king of the world."

"They're loading something onto Kirk's yacht," Chuck told Casey, pointing toward the ship and trying to keep his voice steady.

"That's it. That's the missile launcher. They're gonna follow him out and use it to take out the Taiwanese boat." Casey's tone was grim.

Chuck's hands were shaking. "The one with Morgan on it?"

"I'm going to create a diversion," Casey said. "Then I'll take out the guards. Chuck—"

"Yeah, I know." He rolled his eyes. "Go back to the car and stay there."

"Not this time." He grabbed Chuck by the shoulders. "Rizzo's on that boat. You need to alert her and get her on the playing field. We're gonna need her in the game too."

OoOoOoOoO

Sarah, Bryce, and Jackson were sitting in a van down the street from Whittaker's house in the Mission District—Potrero Hill, to be exact. They had a great view of the San Francisco Bay and city skyline from where they were parked and for once, the sun was shining. Since it was a Saturday, Whittaker was home from her 9-5 as a counterintelligence screener for the Bizzell Corporation—which gave them the perfect opportunity for a stakeout. Takeout containers littered the dashboard, along with empty coffee cups and a pair of binoculars. The agents' sole job was to watch and listen—which wasn't all that intriguing unless something interesting was going on. So far, that had not been the case.

Sarah had always hated stakeouts with Bryce. With hours of stagnation involved, she'd wanted to pass the time with some kind—_any _kind—of conversation. Bryce, on the other hand, was all business. He felt that idle talk was a waste of brain power. Thank God for Jackson. He—like Chuck—was a social butterfly without a filter. He talked about anything and everything that crossed his mind, especially his family. Over the three hours that they'd been in the van thus far, he'd told Sarah all about his marriage and the two children who were his pride and joy.

It was obvious to Sarah how much he loved his wife. When he spoke of her, his eyes shone with an adoration she could only compare to the looks she'd received from Chuck that made her feel so special. But when he spoke of his children, Sarah really began to understand all that was possible for her future with Chuck. Jackson had a three-year-old girl who'd just started taking dance lessons, and an eight-year-old boy with a passion for t-ball and Minecraft. The pride in Jackson's voice when he talked about watching his daughter's first dance recital and cheering for his son transformed the analyst. Sarah could tell how much he loved his kids and how deeply his family mattered to him. The idea of starting a family of her own—something she'd only recently envisioned—still scared the crap out of her, but it was starting to excite her, too. She imagined a little boy with blue eyes and brown curls, and her heart swelled.

Jackson was also adept at multitasking. While he'd told her all about his family, he'd been busy fiddling with the dials on his equipment and checking the connections to the StingRay. Whittaker's cell had connected to their 'tower' as soon as they'd come in range. They had even been able to turn on her cell's microphone, only to hear her walking around her house, doing mundane chores. It'd gone on like that for hours. No calls, in or out. Whittaker didn't seem nearly as connected as the intel had suggested—or if she was, she'd chosen that morning to take the day off.

Bryce sipped his rapidly-cooling coffee, eyes at half-mast. From the glances he'd been giving Sarah, she knew he didn't find Jackson's family stories nearly as entrancing as she did. He looked about five seconds away from slipping back into stasis.

Then, right in the middle of a story about Jackson's little girl's first steps, a green light started blinking on the StingRay, alerting them to an incoming call. Jackson turned up the speaker and started a transcript.

**Monica Whittaker**: Hello?

**Unknown Male**: Hey baby. How's it going? Miss me?

Jackson started typing furiously. Sarah assumed he was using the FBI's resources to run a query on the source number.

**Monica Whittaker**: Of course I have, Nate. More than you know. Where have you been? I haven't heard from you in days.

**Unknown Male**: I'm so sorry, sweetie. Kerr has been riding us day and night for the last few days. This is the first chance I've had to call. Ever since his appointment it's been a madhouse here.

**Monica Whittaker**: Are you sure this has nothing to do with your wife? I told you. I can't keep doing this. It's either her or me. I deserve better than this.

**Unknown Male**: It's got nothing to do with her. I spoke with Jessica after my last visit with you. I told you I would. I moved out the next day.

**Monica Whittaker**: So it's done? You're not lying to me again, are you?

**Unknown Male**: No, baby. I'm not. It's just you and me now. I promise.

**Monica Whittaker**: So when do I get to see you again?

**Unknown Male**: That's the other reason I called. I've been able to get three days off work. I've already booked my flight. I'm coming to see you in the morning. I'm done sitting on the fence, Monica. I love you. I'm ready to start planning our life together.

**Monica Whittaker**: Oh, Nate. You've made me a very happy woman. I can't wait to show you just how much.

**Unknown Male**: Is that right, Miss Whittaker?

**Monica Whittaker**: That's right, Mr. Page. You better come prepared.

**Unknown Male**: I can't wait, Monica. I'll see you in the morning. I'm taking the red-eye. It gets in at 6 am. I'll rent a car and wake you up in a proper fashion.

**Monica Whittaker**: I love you, Nate.

**Unknown Male**: I love you too. Bye, Monica.

**Monica Whittaker**: Bye.

The call disconnected and Sarah, Bryce, and Jackson looked at one another, trying to process what they'd just heard.

Whittaker didn't sound like someone who stole secrets. She sounded like a woman in love. Nate Page, however, was now a person of interest.

OoOoOoOoO

Zondra called Kirk first thing in the morning. As she expected, he invited her to spend the day with him. Once she arrived, Kirk wasted no time insisting she try on a bikini he had "purchased just for you." She doubted that was the case. More likely, he had many on hand for this kind of occasion. She changed and met him on the upper deck of the yacht as asked. When he saw her, his eyes glazed over and his arrogant smirk sent a chill down her spine.

God, she hated these kinds of assignments, but this was her job, and after looking like a fool for following Chuck's flawed plan, she was determined to nail Kirk on her own. She had enough black marks in her file after the C.A.T. Squad/Walker debacle. Trusting Chuck had been a rookie mistake, but there was just something indefinable about him that drew her in. She was too smart to fall for it again, though. He'd been wrong and now he was benched. Zondra felt lucky she wasn't as well.

So why was she feeling guilty? She didn't owe Chuck her allegiance, but her last conversation with him kept playing over and over in her mind. He didn't believe she was a traitor and just wanted her to confide in him. "Partners need to trust one another," he'd said. That was true enough, but she had worked solo ever since the squad. She wasn't sure she could let anyone in again. Losing Walker's trust and friendship had taken a huge toll on her.

And then there was hard-assed Casey. She never—in a million years—would think he'd back Chuck's play after that screw-up. But she saw it in Casey's eyes too. He trusted Chuck enough to follow his lead, just on faith alone.

Maybe she'd have to revisit her reluctance about getting close to someone again after this mission was over. Right now she needed to stay sharp and start pressing Kirk's buttons to find out what he knew.

She turned away from him and leaned against the railing to give him a better view. Predictably, he was on her in seconds. Kirk started to rub lotion all over her, touching her in places that would normally get a man killed. Closing her eyes, she leaned into him, acting as if his ministrations were driving her crazy. Reaching up behind her, she ran her hands through his hair. She let out a satisfied sigh as he started to kiss his way down her neck. The man disgusted her, but if this was what was necessary to get the job done, she intended to do it.

Zondra opened her eyes. To her horror, just as Kirk snaked a hand around her belly, she caught sight of Chuck standing on the dock. Their eyes met, and his darkened with worry and disappointment. _Damn it_.

Chuck pointed to his temple and then to a ship making its way out of the marina. He nodded to the back of Kirk's yacht and started to walk in that direction. Was he going to blow her cover?

Zondra forced her body to stay pliant as a man came up from below deck. He was thin, with dark hair and the pale skin of someone who spent most of his time inside.

"Mr. Kirk, I'm sorry to interrupt you, but you wanted to know when I was finished," the guy said apologetically. "I'll head back and wait for you. I'm ready whenever you are, sir."

"Very well. I'll be right there," Kirk said. Bending his head, he whispered in Zondra's ear, "Let's hold that thought. I need to take care of something. Stay here. I'll be right back."

She made a regretful sound and stepped away, holding her position long enough for Kirk's head to disappear below deck. After she was sure he and the other guy were gone, she followed them to listen in. Halfway down the steps, she heard them talking and froze, taking in every word.

"We've got a GPS tracker on the ship," the guy—who, Zondra realized, must be Kirk's tech op—said. "The rocket guides itself."

Oh, no. Fear wound its way through Zondra's veins. She edged closer, straining to hear.

"Are the coordinates set?" Kirk said.

"Yes, sir. I've just got to pull the trigger."

"No, when the time comes, I'll pull the trigger." There was an unmistakable sound of satisfaction in Kirk's voice. "I never liked Rashan anyway."

Zondra took a soundless step downward—just as someone grabbed her from behind. She twisted in their grip and saw one of Kirk's deckhands, who marched her down the rest of the stairs. Of course she could've resisted and had him on the ground in seconds, but that would've been out of character for the gold-digging bimbo Kirk thought he was entertaining.

"Sir, we've got a situation," the deckhand said, dragging her in front of Kirk.

Zondra tried for indignation. "Lon, can you please tell this oaf to take his hands off me?" She tossed her hair, doing her best impression of a clueless airhead.

"It's okay," Kirk said to the deckhand, who promptly released Zondra. She stood there in the stupid bikini, rubbing her wrists.

"Is this how you treat all the girls you invite to spend the day with you?" she asked, trying to salvage what was left of the operation. "Because if so, I can certainly understand why you have a rotating cast of characters."

"Sir, she was eavesdropping on your conversation from the stairs," the deckhand said, effectively ruining any chance she had of making Kirk believe she was innocent.

"Is that right?" Kirk gave her a slow once-over. "Well, that _is_ unfortunate. I'm sorry about this, Zondra, but we're actually about to push off." He glanced over at the deckhand. "I'm afraid Ms. Rizzo has worn out her welcome. Please take care of her."

The unmistakable feeling of a gun muzzle settled between her shoulder blades. Two other deckhands stepped out of a side door, and together with Kirk, they marched her toward the back of the yacht.

Her mind working furiously, Zondra made a final attempt to defuse the situation. "Kirk, you better call off your thugs. You have no idea who you're dealing with. You're gonna regret this."

"Ha ha. Yeah, not going to happen. Nice try." Kirk motioned to the deckhands, who pushed her down the stairs, the muzzle of the gun still against her spine.

They shoved her toward the stern of the ship. Chuck stood next to where it was moored, his arms folded across his chest.

"Well, well, well," he said, projecting his voice loud enough for all of them to hear. "And here I thought we were in love. How can you do this to me, Zondra? I've given you so much. That pet ocelot you just had to have. The diamond-encrusted bikini you ended up washing on spin cycle. The winters we spent skiing in the Alps, when you ate your weight in Swiss chocolate but I vowed to love you anyway. And this is how I find you?"

"What did you expect, Charles?" Zondra said, relieved that Chuck was willing to play along no matter how irritated he was with her. Her partner had her back, just like he'd promised. "You know I'm a woman with champagne tastes."

"Oh, I know, all right … Do you love him?" Chuck said, managing to look hurt.

Kirk threw his hands in the air. "You know what? I actually don't have time for this."

"Oh, yes, you do." A slow scowl spread across Chuck's face. "Yeah, I know what you're up to, tough guy."

"There you go, talking shit again." Zondra stamped her foot—a move that was far more effective in the steel-toed boots or stilettos she preferred than in the sandals she was currently wearing. "Why don't you get out of here and leave me alone?"

"Why don't you both get out—" Kirk began, just as a concussive boom from the bow of the ship made all of them turn to look back. "What was that?"

Chuck took advantage of Kirk's momentary distraction. He leapt aboard, slamming into the guy who held the gun to her back. The gun fell to the floor, giving Zondra the chance to launch her own attack. She was relieved, grateful—and shocked as hell. Nowhere in his file did it say Chuck could fight. Yet here he was, saving her ass.

She took out the other two guys who'd been forcibly escorting her off the ship—one with an elbow to the throat and another with a knee to the groin—then settled into a crouch to assess the situation. Kirk was fleeing the fight, headed towards the ship's wheelhouse. She had to get to him.

She rose from her crouch just as Chuck yelled, "Zondra, watch out!"

Another one of Kirk's thugs had emerged from God knew where. He swung at her head as she spun, kicking the guy hard in his knee. She heard it pop. He wasn't going to get back up after that.

When she looked again, Chuck was already halfway up the stairs. He was going after Kirk himself, despite being dangerously underequipped in the self-defense department. He was crazy as hell. It was kinda sexy.

By the time she reached the wheelhouse, Chuck stood there with his hands up, blocking the doorway. She could see Kirk through the glass.

"Get out of the way," Kirk said. He knelt down, a rocket launcher on his shoulder.

"Put the rocket launcher down," Chuck said—a reasonable approach that Zondra could have told him wasn't worth a crap. Instead, Kirk aimed the launcher between Chuck's legs and fired.

"Oh shit," Chuck said weakly—but he didn't run. Instead, he kneed Kirk hard in the face. The man's head snapped back and he crumpled, out cold.

Chuck turned, sprinting up the stairs with Zondra in tow. He grabbed the controller for the rocket launcher off a table without breaking his stride, and made his way to the top deck. Casey was already standing there, surrounded by fallen bad guys. For once, he looked winded. "Figured I'd find you with some kind of geek gadget in your hands, Bartowski. Any brilliant ideas?"

Chuck studied the launcher's controller for a few seconds, scrolling through its menu. "Hey, look. The rocket is guided by GPS software. All software can be reset."

"Hurry up and reset it then, moron," Casey said with typical impatience.

Zondra watched Chuck's fingers fly across the controller's interface. His confidence and skill were hypnotizing. The guy was incredible. She was starting to see why Casey trusted him.

"That's it," Chuck said, breathing a sigh of relief. He finished resetting the missile controller, and the rocket turned.

"Holy crap. You did it, Chuck," Zondra said, letting her approbation show in her voice.

"I can't believe that worked." Chuck sounded stunned.

Casey grunted—number 56, resigned with a side of why-the-hell-am-I-the-only-one-who-thinks-about-this-shit? "Chuck, where's the rocket heading now?"

"I don't know." Chuck shrugged. "I reset it."

"Sure reset doesn't mean 'return to sender'?"

"Oh, man," Chuck said as the implications sank in.

"Enter another target." Casey's voice was urgent. "Away from us."

Chuck wrung his hands. "I need another target first, with GPS coordinates. I don't know… wait. Casey, what about your car?"

"No." Casey sounded horrified. "Absolutely not."

"We're running out of time. Just tell me what the GPS coordinates are for the Crown Vic." Chuck looked like he wanted to shake the NSA agent.

"Tell him, Casey." Zondra had no qualms about shaking him, if she thought it would actually produce results. Casey's jaw was set, his expression grim.

"Tell me, Casey." Chuck's voice held as much iron as any experienced agent's.

"Seven-one-four-seven-seven," Casey muttered from between clenched teeth.

"Ugh. I'm really sorry, buddy." Chuck's fingers flew over the keyboard. "Here we go."

The rocket turned again and the missile flew, hitting the Crown Victoria and obliterating it. Casey stared at the crater where the Vic had been parked and gave a small, miserable sigh. "Oh! I hate this assignment."

"I said I was sorry, right?" Chuck said, but the NSA agent wasn't listening. He was focused on the remains of his car, a desolate look on his face. Zondra, on the other hand, could not have been happier. She was awed by Chuck's capabilities. There was so much more to him than was apparent at first glance. She looked forward to discovering just how much.

OoOoOoOoO

Sarah and Bryce waited as Jackson combed through the FBI's resources on a Nathaniel J. Page. He was a player. Page worked for Donald Kerr, the newly confirmed Principal Deputy Director of National Intelligence.

Alarm bells were blaring in Sarah's head. Both Graham and Beckman reported to the DNI's office. This was bad. She'd always suspected that Agent Channing would never produce a legitimate FISA warrant on Whittaker. Jackson had already tapped Whittaker's land-line by the time Sarah and Bryce had walked down the hall to his cubicle, which was invasive enough. Now Sarah harbored suspicions that Channing was using their team to spy on the offices of the DNI. Either that, or Page was the leak that needed to be plugged—both figuratively and literally. It was too early to tell based on the evidence they'd gathered—a single phone conversation with Whittaker.

Page would have to be followed. They knew the time and place to pick up his trail, but it would be tricky.

"Okay guys, I'm freaking out a little bit here," Jackson said, looking up from his laptop. "This guy is really connected. We're talking the top of the alphabet food chain, connected. If we're tasked to move in on him and we're wrong about him being shady, I don't want to be around for the shitstorm to follow."

Bryce twisted in his seat to look at Jackson. "Yeah, buddy. I have a bad feeling about this. We should keep it quiet 'til we know more about Page."

"I agree. He's going to be here for three days, according to his call with Whittaker." Sarah set her to-go coffee in the cup holder between the seats. "Let's start a tail on him as soon as he hits the ground. See if he contacts anyone else besides her. We'll also need to read you in on our real mission, Jackson."

Jackson rubbed the back of his neck. "I'm sorry? I—uh—I'm not following you. What do you mean?"

Sarah drew a deep breath. She was taking a huge risk, but she trusted Jackson and she knew Bryce would back her play. "Agent Anderson and I are actually working undercover for the CIA. We have orders to find and expose an operative or operatives who are suspected to be working out of your office. They're interested in obtaining highly classified intelligence coming out of the DNI. Sound familiar?"

"The CIA and the DNI's office?" Jackson said, floored.

"I know it's a lot to take in." Bryce's voice settled into the calm, persuasive tone he used to put marks at ease, and Sarah's eyes narrowed. Jackson wasn't a mark. He was a good guy and they'd just blindsided him. Still, she knew Bryce wasn't manipulating Jackson; he was backing her play, like a good partner should. "We really need your help with this. Can we count on you?"

Jackson gulped and nodded, turning as white as the half-eaten powdered doughnut that sat next to his thermos. "Yeah, sure thing, Bruce … Oh, boy. I don't feel so good."

After Jackson finally got over his initial shock, Bryce and Sarah told him what they suspected about Agents Reeves and Channing, and suggested that Jackson help keep an eye on them as well. He took that better than spying on a high-ranking DNI official, and with good reason.

The rest of the afternoon was uneventful. Whittaker's only other call was to a pizza parlor close to her house. It all checked out. At 6 pm they turned over Whittaker's surveillance to another team, with strict instructions to contact Jackson before reporting in, should anything happen overnight.

Sarah drove the van back to the St. Regis hotel. They'd agreed that to save time, Jackson would drive the van home and pick Sarah and Bryce up in the morning to start their tail on Page.

"Thanks for being such a team player," Sarah said to Jackson as she pulled into a spot in front of the hotel. "I know this is a lot to take in."

Jackson ran the flat of his hand over his bald head, a gesture Sarah noticed he made whenever he felt nervous. "I'm honored that you've trusted me enough to be a part of your team, but I'd be lying if I didn't tell you how apprehensive this makes me. When this operation is over—if it fails or succeeds—you two will just go back to the CIA, but me? I live here. Reeves and Channing are my bosses. I've got a wife and two kids who depend on me. If this all blows up in our faces, I'm worried I'll lose my job—or worse."

Sarah paused for a moment before responding. She completely understood his concerns. No matter how much she valued what he could contribute to the operation, the decision whether or not to take the job was up to him. "Don't worry, Jackson," she said at last. "I'll personally make sure the director of the CIA himself clears you for this operation and that the DOJ gives you assurances your job will be safe. This is a matter of national security and your assistance is vital. That said, you will be taking considerable risks. The choice has to be yours."

Jackson swallowed hard. Finally he said, "I may be a nerd, but I'm a nerd who joined the FBI because—as clichéd as it sounds—I believe in the importance of justice. I'm no coward. If Reeves, Channing, or Page are dirty and I can do something to help stop them, then count me in."

Bryce reached back to clap him on the shoulder, making the analyst wince again. "Good man. We'll see you tomorrow at 5 am sharp."

They got out of the van and walked into the lobby. Once the elevator doors closed behind them, Bryce let out a sigh. "That little guy is braver than I thought. As always, you have great instincts, Sarah."

She smiled at him as the doors opened on his floor. "Thanks for trusting me."

As soon as Sarah made it to her room, she peeled off her jacket and headed for the bathroom. After hours cooped up in the van, she needed a long soak in the tub. She also wanted to talk to Chuck. He always made her feel better, no matter how bad things were.

She checked her watch before setting it on the counter next to her phone and turned on the water.

OoOoOoOoO

After Chuck, Casey, and Zondra finished up with Lon Kirk at the marina, Chuck drove Casey over to the Buy More for the annual holiday party. Casey grunted with disgust as he folded his mammoth frame into the Herder, leaving Zondra to deal with the smoking wreckage of his Crown Vic.

The entire way to the Buy More, Casey stared silently out the window, brooding like a teenager that just lost his first love. Chuck felt awful, but at the same time, he didn't know what else he could've done to save their lives. Still, he'd never seen the NSA agent look so depressed. Unsure how to console him, Chuck just kept quiet.

Space. That's what Casey needed. Or, at least that's what Chuck told himself as they walked into the Buy More. The last of the customers were at the checkouts and it wouldn't be long before the store closed and the festivities began—not that Chuck felt remotely festive. Casey's death glares were also a contributing factor in leaving him to mourn by himself. Chuck made his way to the break room and sat down. A few minutes later, Morgan walked in and gave him a wan smile.

"Hey, buddy," Chuck said, doing his best not to think about how close he'd come to never seeing Morgan again.

"Hey, dude." Morgan's tone was distinctly lackluster.

"How did it go with Anna's family on the yacht?" Chuck said, trying to sound genuinely curious. No matter how badly Morgan had behaved, the end result had to be an improvement over winding up dead at the bottom of the marina.

Morgan sank into a chair next to Chuck. "Fine, until I got seasick and barfed."

Chuck repressed a grin. For as long as they'd been friends, Morgan had never been much of a sailor—Popeye cap aside. "Was Anna freaked out?"

"She rubbed my back mid-puke, and then brought me a warm cloth to clean the shrimp lobs out of my beard. She's an amazing woman, dude. And I am a lucky guy."

Chuck thought about his recent conversations with Sarah, and how awesome it'd felt to finally be honest with her. "Is there any way you can say that to her instead of me?"

"Yeah. I guess I could, but that would leave me completely vulnerable. You know, kinda like a sweet puppy laying on his back, waiting for his belly to be scratched. Privates just kind of dangling out there for everyone to see."

Chuck stared at Morgan in horror, his mouth open. He shut it with a snap and said, "I was suggesting that you talk to her. Expose your emotions, not your private parts."

"I know what you meant, dude. Problem is, I think I'd have an easier time letting the boys hang out. But I can certainly give it a shot, you know?"

Before Chuck could respond, Jeff burst through the doors, thermos in hand. "The doors are closed," he crowed, sounding half-drunk already. "Time to get polluted."

Rolling their eyes, Chuck and Morgan followed Jeff out to the sales floor. Big Mike stood in front of the Nerd Herd desk, decked out in a full Santa suit.

"Okay, people," he announced. "The official Buy More Christmas—"

"Hey, now." Lester interrupted.

"—_Holiday_ party is about to commence. As a reminder, I'll accept all gifts, cash, and checks in my office or under the tree. Keep it clean and be prepared to get down."

On cue, the DJ started spinning and the Buy More's staff began to boogie—with a few exceptions. Casey stood over by the Beastmasters, looking both furious and forlorn.

"I'm gonna be right back," Chuck told Morgan, making his way over to the NSA agent.

Casey saw him coming but ignored him, fiddling with the lid of the nearest Beastmaster. Chuck figured that with the Crown Vic vaporized, the grill was the closest thing Casey had to a true love.

"Hey, listen," Chuck said. "I'm really sorry about the whole—"

"Killing my car thing?" Casey's head came up and he zeroed in on Chuck with laser focus.

"Yeah, that," Chuck said, trying not to fidget under the weight of Casey's glare. "Again, I'm sorry."

"She was my dream car." Casey sounded heartbroken.

Chuck stared at him in disbelief. "A Crown Victoria was your dream car?"

If looks could kill, Chuck would have been dead on the spot. Quickly, he backpedaled. "And why wouldn't it be? Really beautiful lines, I've always found." He shoved his hands in his pockets. No matter how absurd he felt Casey's obsession might be, he'd still destroyed the man's prized possession. "I feel terrible about that, okay? But it is the holidays, right? Which is a time for forgiveness. Anything I can do to make it up to you?"

"Sure," Casey said, without missing a beat. "You can buy me a new car."

Chuck started to laugh, but one look at the NSA agent's face told him Casey wasn't kidding. "You're totally serious, aren't you?"

Casey inclined his head. "What do you think?"

"Well, how about we take the $50,000 that I won last night and put it toward a new Vic with all the trimmings? After all, I'm not getting paid to be the government's lab rat. It's the least they could do."

"Hmm. I forgot all about that," Casey said, a slight smile lifting his lips. "You know, that's not a bad idea, Bartowski. Thanks."

Chuck grinned widely back at him. "No problem, Casey, and Merry Christmas. Now if you'll excuse me, that's my jam."

OoOoOoOoO

Chuck was about to open Jeff's present—a prospect that filled him with trepidation—when his phone buzzed. He looked at the screen and saw an alert: Someone was calling Casey.

The night before, Chuck had finally figured out how to monitor and record Casey's calls. Instead of hacking Casey's phone, Chuck decided to hack the SS7 system itself. He knew from his classes at Stanford that Signaling System No 7—otherwise known as SS7—was a system that connected one mobile phone network to another. Since SS7 allowed phone networks to exchange the information needed for passing calls and text messages between each other, Chuck could transparently forward all of Casey's calls to his remote server, giving him the ability to record and listen to them at his leisure—without leaving any trace. All he needed was Casey's cell phone number, which he had.

Chuck scanned the store and found Casey. Sure enough, the NSA agent was on his phone. Casey was trying to be discreet—he'd ducked halfway into the DVD aisle—but from what Chuck could see of his face, he looked upset. This alarmed Chuck. Aside from the incident with the Crown Vic, Casey was always stoic. Whoever he was talking to, the conversation had shaken him up.

Casey ended his call, looked up, and met Chuck's eyes. For the first time since they'd met, Casey looked away first, unable to hold Chuck's stare.

Disturbed, Chuck excused himself and went to the bathroom. He chose a stall so he could close the door, put in his earbuds, and listen to the recorded call in privacy. His heart pounding, he logged into his server, found the recording right where it was supposed to be, and hit play.

"Casey," the agent said, answering his phone with his usual gruff demeanor.

"Major," General Beckman responded. "I'm calling to inform you that the beta version of the Intersect computer was successful. This means the new Intersect should be up and running soon. Once the new computer is online, it will be time to take care of Bartowski."

_Take care of Bartowski? _What the hell did she mean?

There was a brief pause. Then Casey said, sounding resolute, "Roger that."

"I hope you have not grown too fond of the subject," Beckman said. "I would hate for you to be compromised."

Chuck couldn't believe what he was hearing. Beckman had just ordered Casey to assassinate him—and all Casey had to say about it was 'Roger that'?

It turned out Casey did have one more thing to say—but it didn't make Chuck feel any better. "I understand my orders, General," the agent said, his voice as neutral as if Beckman had ordered him to take out the trash.

"Oh, and John?" Beckman said, a lighter note in her voice.

"Yeah?"

"Happy holidays," Beckman said, and disconnected the call.

OoOoOoOoO

After overhearing Beckman and Casey's conversation about their apparent plans to murder him, Chuck had to get out of there. He couldn't stick around all the merry people in the Buy More any longer, plus Casey was still there and he couldn't bear to see his face. He was afraid of what he might say or do. He needed to talk to Sarah. She was the only one who might be able to calm him down.

Beckman's 'happy holidays' sign off with Casey had made his blood boil. How could she be so callous about ordering the death of an innocent person? Not only was it illegal—it was immoral and a betrayal by his own team and country. Beckman didn't deserve the moniker of General, nor Casey Major, or even soldier, for that matter. All of those terms were supposed to connote respect and Chuck had none for either one of them. In his opinion, they were no better than Fulcrum.

Well, that was it. He was done playing 'Mr. Nice Asset' with these people. It was time to go to the mattresses and fight back. He'd already gotten plenty of dirt on Beckman. His deep dive on her was bearing fruit. And now he had a secured recording of her and Casey plotting to take him out. He just needed to figure out what he was going to do with all the information. He also needed to make sure his family and friends didn't wind up as collateral damage when the shit hit the fan.

As Chuck got out of the Herder at his apartment, he wondered how he'd gotten there. The drive from the Buy More hadn't even registered in his mind, he was so mad. That was a first.

As he passed through the gates to the courtyard, he saw Zondra sitting on the edge of the fountain, an uncharacteristically shy look on her face. _Great._ _Now what_?

"Hey Chuck," she said as he walked up beside her. "You got a minute?"

Chuck did not, in fact, have a minute. What he did have was a lot on his mind and a desperate need to formulate a plan. He couldn't share any of this with Zondra, though, so instead he said, "Um—sure. What's up? Another mission already?"

She shook her head, looking sheepish. "No, nothing like that. I just—I've been thinking a lot since we wrapped up this last mission and I don't like how I ended up handling things with you."

Zondra's dismissive attitude was the last thing on Chuck's mind right now. Still, at this point he had nothing to lose by being honest. "Can't say I was crazy about it either. Never thought I'd have to beg for someone to trust me to have their back," he said, sounding bitterer than he intended.

"You're right, Chuck. I was stupid. I know I should've trusted you." She glanced at the ground. "It's just, I've always had to depend on myself. I didn't really have anyone when I was growing up and my first real friend ended up accusing me of betraying my country and our friendship. I'm having a hard time coming to terms with someone actually looking out for me. When you saw me with Kirk on the deck of his ship—with his hands all over me, after everything you and I talked about—I've never felt so ashamed in my life. God, what you must think of me right now."

Chuck looked over his shoulder at the apartment he shared with his sister. All he wanted was to go inside, call Sarah, and figure a way out of this mess. The last thing he was in the mood to do was help Zondra sort through her emotional baggage, even if she was trying to make amends. That position had been filled; he was already Sarah's baggage handler.

"Honestly, I don't know what to think, but I'm not here to be your judge. You were right before. I don't understand your world and I'm not sure I want to." After the conversation Chuck had overheard tonight, that statement felt truer than ever. "I refuse to believe that mission objectives are worth sacrificing our consciences for. We're people, Zondra, not robots. We have to live with our actions after the missions are done."

She looked up at him, an earnest expression on her face. "And I've had to live alone with mine for far too long. Maybe you can help me find a better way?"

Chuck wasn't sure he'd live long enough to see tomorrow, let alone help Zondra figure out how to make better decisions. It wasn't as if his own life choices were working out so well at the moment. Still, she was reaching out to him and he didn't have the heart to turn her away. "Absolutely. Friends?" He held out his hand to seal the deal.

"Yeah, friends." Bypassing his hand, she threw her arms around him and hugged him tight. Standing on her tiptoes, she gave him a lingering kiss on the cheek. Before he could react, she lowered herself, smiled at him, and walked away.

Chuck strode toward his apartment, in too much of a tailspin to process what had just happened with Zondra. He could only think about one thing right now. He needed Sarah's help. He was freaking out.

OoOoOoOoO

When Sarah climbed out of the bathtub, she checked her phone and saw she'd missed a message from Chuck. She opened it—and panicked.

_Sarah, are you there?_ he'd typed. _I really need you right now.  
_

Chuck had never sounded so vulnerable before. Something had to be terribly wrong.

He'd attached an MP3 file to the message. She hit play and, with growing horror, listened to Beckman and Casey's plot to take Chuck out. No wonder he was freaking out—and this time, he was justified.

Oh, God. She needed to get back to Burbank—before they got to him.

* * *

As always, we want to know what you think! Please leave a review.


	7. Sarah vs the Underlover Cover

Chapter Seven … in which Sarah sees red, Ellie sees Green, Chuck sees an unexpected side of Casey, and Zondra looks good in Dirndl.

This chapter starts the Undercover Lover arc. Since a lot of this episode was filled with action and since we've changed some key elements of the plot, it will probably only be a couple chapters long.

Disclaimer: We don't own Chuck…

* * *

**Chapter 7: Sarah vs the Underlover Cover  
**

Red. All she saw was red. Blood red. A scarlet vision of fear and anger that burned through Sarah's mind and body as she sat on her bed holding her phone, shaking with rage.

They were all planning to kill him. Graham and Beckman didn't shock her—but Casey? That just didn't make sense. Yes, he was a cold-school killer that always followed orders, but this was Chuck—_her_ Chuck. Casey wasn't duty-bound to follow such an order. As a matter of fact, he was duty-bound to _not _follow it. It was illegal and immoral, and there was no honor in it, either.

Chuck was no enemy of the state. He was guilty of nothing. He was a kind and brave man—a patriot whose government had forced him into servitude. He deserved their gratitude for the countless lives he'd saved, not their treachery. Especially Casey's. Chuck had saved her and Casey's lives too many times to count—without acknowledgment, no less—and they were the trained agents, the ones assigned to protect him. And this was how Casey thanked him?

Well, to hell with that. They'd kill Chuck over her dead body. She needed to get back to Burbank and put the fear of God in these people.

Before responding to Chuck's message, Sarah opened her laptop and checked for flights. She needed to tell him something solid. A plan of action. She knew he was freaking out.

Damn it—the first available flight out wasn't until 7:20 am tomorrow morning. She huffed and booked the flight anyway with a credit card she kept for emergencies. She'd travel under an old alias, Rebecca Franco. It was the best she could do on short notice without involving or alerting the CIA. She could pick up her Porsche, which was still in long-term parking in L.A., when she landed.

She closed her laptop and sent Chuck her reply. _I'm here_.

His response came immediately. _Oh my God, Sarah. I'm about to lose it. They're going to kill me.  
_

The hell they were. _No, Chuck. I won't let that happen. I'm on my way to you._

_You're coming home?  
_

_Yes_, she replied, realizing just how true it was. Burbank was her home now—but only because Chuck was there. If he decided to move to Boise, she had a feeling Idaho would be where she'd park her Porsche. _I'll be there in the morning. We'll figure this out together. Don't freak out.  
_

_I'm not anymore … Because you're coming home._ Even though they were only texting, she could feel the warmth behind his words_. I love you so much.  
_

_I love you too, Chuck_, she wrote, amazed at how those words were getting easier and easier for her to say. _I'll contact you as soon as I land. Right now I need to run and take care of some things before I can leave.  
_

_Okay. I can't wait to see you_.

A thrill of excitement ran through her at the thought of being with him again—maybe even finishing what they'd started with that incredible kiss. _Me too, Chuck. Good night.  
_

_Good night, Sarah.  
_

Sarah closed the app, slid her phone into her back pocket, grabbed her key card, and headed out the door. She made her way down to Bryce's room, hoping his earlier promise to her hadn't been all talk. It was time for him to prove it. Would he really have her back?

She raised her hand to knock, but hesitated. He might get the wrong idea about her being here at this time of night. If he did, this could blow up in her face, but what choice did she have?

Steeling her resolve, she knocked and a few moments later, he answered. When she saw him, her heart sank. His lips curved in that old tried-and-true smirk. It didn't last long, though, and Sarah was relieved to see it morph into a genuine look of concern when he took in her expression.

"Sarah, what's wrong?"

"We have a problem," she said, voice terse. "Can I come in?"

"Of course." Bryce stepped aside and closed the door behind them.

Sarah sat down at the table, placed her palms flat against the surface, and tried to slow her breathing. Giving her an appraising look, Bryce sank onto the corner of his bed, his elbows on his knees.

"So, what's going on?" he said when it was clear she wasn't going to start talking.

"Chuck's in big trouble, Bryce." She met his eyes. "We have to help him."

"That's kinda his MO lately, isn't it? Is this about Graham again?"

"No—yes—not really." Sarah couldn't remember the last time she'd sounded so incoherent. "Yes, we still need to keep tabs on what Graham's up to, but Casey's the one who's been given the order to kill Chuck when the new Intersect goes online."

Bryce stood up and started pacing. He knew what it was like, first-hand, to be on the wrong end of Casey's gun and Sarah could tell he was spooked. He stopped and spun on her. "Casey? Are you sure? Where'd you get your intel?"

Sarah knotted her fingers together. "Chuck overheard Beckman give him the order. Casey gave her a crisp 'Roger that' and told her he understood what he had to do."

"Wait a minute." He narrowed his eyes. "You've been in touch with Chuck? When?"

Whoops. She hadn't thought this all the way through, had she? Well, she was all in now. She needed to trust Bryce if she had any hope of pulling this off. She had a plan, but without his help, she'd be fighting a war on two fronts all by herself. It was time to lay it all out there, deal with whatever his reaction would be, and hope her instincts about him were correct.

"Every day since we left Burbank," she admitted.

Bryce's eyes grew large as Sarah shyly smiled up at him. A tear slipped down her cheek. "What can I say? He's my guy and I love him, Bryce."

He blew out a frustrated sigh, looking up at the ceiling, and sat back down on his bed. Sadly, he glanced over at her, then put his head in his hands. After a moment, he looked up at her with his cheeky grin. "What's not to love? So, what do you need me to do?"

"Do you really think of Chuck as your best friend?"

"He was my _only_ friend before I screwed up his life … twice." Regret filled Bryce's voice.

"Well, now you have a chance to start making things right. I'm headed for Burbank in the morning to see Chuck and confront Casey. I need you to cover for me with Graham and Reeves for the next three days. We're supposed to be tailing Page while he's in town anyway, so it shouldn't be that hard. We also need to figure out if Page is someone we can trust. We might need someone in the DNI on our side. Both Beckman and Graham report to that office. Even if Page is dirty, we can still find other uses for him."

Bryce shifted his weight. "Sure, Sarah. Jackson and I have it covered. But do me a favor when you see Chuck, okay? … Tell him that in the end, he was the better man. Tell him that the proof is right in front of him."

Sarah blushed, looking down at the carpet, and nodded. On impulse, she wrapped her arms around him. "Thank you, Bryce."

OoOoOoOoO

The next morning, shortly after the store opened, Chuck sat at the Nerd Herd desk watching John Casey deal with an irate customer. Casey had the 1,000-yard stare he wore when his mind was elsewhere. Given Casey's history, Chuck could only imagine he was remembering something terrible. It gave Chuck a window into what it must look like to have Casey come after someone with the intent to kill—his expression bored, almost indifferent, as if taking a human life was of no consequence. Given the conversation between Beckman and Casey, Chuck feared he might wind up seeing that expression aimed at himself all too soon. He was horror-struck at the thought.

The customer was becoming angrier by the second, and Casey just stood there. He didn't move or speak—just stared straight through the guy. Chuck squared his shoulders, preparing to defuse the situation before the homicidal maniac took out another innocent citizen _without_ his precious orders.

"Did you hear a word I said?" the customer demanded. "Hello? Do you speak English? Hello?"

The man was now six inches from Casey's face. The NSA agent blinked, his gaze focusing. "Yeah," he said, with a distinctly aggressive edge.

If the customer had known who John Casey really was—much less the acts of violence that usually followed that tone of voice—he would have backed off. Instead, he pressed harder. "Then why aren't you moving? Because if you were listening, then you'd be walking to the register to get me my 300 bucks."

"Sir, I repeat, I cannot offer you a refund without a valid receipt." Casey's tone was devoid of emotion.

To Chuck's dismay, the guy poked Casey straight in his nametag. "You can't get me a refund, you won't get me an exchange. What exactly are you capable of doing, big Johnny, you sad, impotent oaf?"

Casey's eyes narrowed. "I'm capable of stopping your heart with one—"

Chuck leapt into the fray before things could get any worse. "Hey, hey, hey, whoa, whoa. Hey, John, what seems to be the problem here?" He glanced down at the camera the customer held in his hand. Based on the make and model, he was sure what the problem must be. "Let me guess—it's the auto focus, right?"

The customer looked down at his camera, then up at Chuck. "Yeah," he said, sounding surprised. "How'd you know?"

"It happens all the time," Chuck said, shooting a nervous glance at Casey. "It's a quick, quick fix and I can take care of it personally. If you'll leave your name and number at the Nerd Herd desk, I'll take care of it in a jiff, okay?"

The customer glared at Casey. "Was that so hard?"

The NSA agent emitted a sound that Chuck could only describe as a primal growl. Unintimidated, the customer turned on his heel and marched off toward the Nerd Herd desk, camera in hand.

"Thank you, have a good day," Chuck called after him. "Just breathe, Casey, breathe. Breathe," he muttered, but the rumble in Casey's chest only grew louder. "Or growl. Growling also works, I guess."

Once the customer was far enough away, Chuck glanced over his shoulder at Casey and—for once—spoke his mind. "You know this isn't a war zone, right? It's a freakin' Buy More, Casey. I thought your job was to protect the American people, not threaten their lives. I'm just guessing the things you've been ordered to do have somehow skewed your sense of right and wrong. But you're a good soldier, huh?"

Chuck leveled a pointed stare at the NSA agent. He expected Casey to snap at him, but to his surprise, Casey's shoulders slumped and his gaze slid away. A second later, the old Casey was back—posture ramrod straight, the perfect soldier—but Chuck knew what he'd seen. Shaken, he walked toward the Nerd Herd desk in pursuit of the customer. Sarah couldn't get here soon enough.

OoOoOoOoO

Chuck made his way to the cage—aka the Chuck pen—to check on Jeff, who was supposed to be repairing a server for the Grand Seville hotel. Just before he reached the door to the back of the shop, his phone chirped, indicating an incoming text. Sarah was on the ground in L.A. and would head over to her old apartment once she retrieved her baggage and car from long-term parking. She'd contact him again when she got there. He responded, telling her he would find a way to get out of the Buy More to come and see her as soon as he could. There just might be a fake off-site work order in Chuck's near future.

Chuck was as happy as a dog with two tails when Jeff came into view. Even Tweedledum couldn't dampen his spirits right now … or so he thought.

Jeff was hunched over his keyboard, wearing a mischievous look. This couldn't be good.

"Hey," Chuck said, his voice filled with trepidation.

A diabolical grin spread across Jeff's face. "You're not going to believe it."

"You got that server to work?" Chuck doubted that was what was making Jeff look so proud, but hey, a Nerd Herd supervisor could dream.

"I got Tara Reid's phone number," Jeff announced, pointing at the screen.

Chuck sighed, resigned but unsurprised. "What have I told you about stalking 'celebrities' online?" he said, using finger quotes to emphasize the word. "And by the way, who doesn't have her phone number?" He took a closer look at the screen. "Is that the Grand Seville's database?"

Jeff looked delirious with joy. "I can access every guest staying at L.A.'s swankiest hotel. It's got it all: Room numbers, credit cards, spank-per-view records."

For a moment, Chuck considered delivering a lecture on morality and the right to privacy. Then he realized who he was dealing with and gave it up as a bad job. "That's super, Jeff. Really good work," he said, grabbing Jeff's rolling chair and slinging him out of the Chuck pen. "I'll let the hotel know their computer's ready."

"You're giving away the Holy Grail," Jeff wailed as the chair careened out of the pen, both arms extended as if to rescue the server from Chuck's clutches. "Tara!"

"Grand Seville, please don't sue us," Chuck muttered, ignoring Jeff's pleas. One at a time, he began closing out the windows Jeff had left open—list after list of names and numbers from the hotel's registry. His eyes zeroed in on a single name, and he flashed. "Dmitry Siljak, known alias of black-market arms dealer specializing in former Soviet…" His voice trailed off as he scanned the list and kept flashing on name after name. Grabbing a pen, he started to jot them down. "Man, I'm gonna have a headache tomorrow."

Then he flashed on another name—Ilsa Trinchina. Images of her and Casey flooded his mind. "Ilsa Trinchina. AP photographer. Rumored lover of undercover NSA agent John Casey, whereabouts unknown… known to Ilsa as Sugar Bear." Usually Chuck's flashes didn't provide him with amusement, but this time was different. The idea of anyone referring to Casey—stoic and expert assassin—as Sugar Bear was both appalling and hilarious. "Sugar Bear's girlfriend's in town," Chuck said, rolling his eyes.

The last thing he wanted right now was to interact with John Casey—but given everything he'd just seen, he didn't feel like he had a choice. Grimly, he snatched the list of names, minus Ilsa's, and went to deliver it.

OoOoOoOoO

Chuck just couldn't catch a break. Every time a good piece of news came his way, the spy life was always there to muck it up for him. He should have been daydreaming about his imminent reunion with Sarah, but instead, here he was, marching off to deliver intel from his flash to Casey—his would-be executioner. He was almost certain the information this list contained would force him to go on yet another dangerous mission with the murderous, soulless robot. Oh, joy!

Leaving the back of the store, he spotted Casey walking down the hall toward the break room. Chuck ran after him to catch up.

"Casey, hey, hey, hey," he said. The agent didn't turn around, just kept walking—so Chuck kept chasing, becoming more annoyed by the moment. "Wait up, wait up."

Casey stopped and turned around, looking at Chuck as if the latter was a bug he'd like to squash. Resisting the urge to squirm, Chuck handed Casey the list he'd compiled. "I just had the motherlode of all bad-guy flashes."

The NSA agent scanned the list, his forehead furrowing. "Who are they?"

"Mostly Russian. All traveling under aliases, fake passports."

"That means they're arms dealers, money launderers, black-market smugglers." Casey's tone was matter-of-fact, as if they were discussing the weather.

"Yeah, apparently they're all having a douchebag convention down at the Grand Seville." Chuck tried to match Casey's level of nonchalance, but he didn't think he'd ever be as accepting of the world's seedy underbelly.

"I'll run it up the flagpole, see what Command wants us to do." List in hand, Casey turned to leave.

"Ah, uh, one, one more thing," Chuck stammered, stopping Casey's retreat. "There was another name. One name that I flashed on, actually. But I left it … her … off of the list."

"What the hell are you talking about, Bartowski?"

Chuck tried his damnedest to keep the humor out of his voice, but it was no use. It was just too ridiculous. "Does the name Ilsa Trinchina mean anything to you—Sugar Bear?"

The words had barely left Chuck's mouth when Casey grabbed him by the throat with both hands, lifted him off the ground, and slammed him against the wall. "You say that name ever again and I will end you. Nod if you understand." He bashed Chuck's head against the wall, forcing him to nod.

With the thin stream of air that was left to him, Chuck choked out, "Casey, you're hurting the Intersect."

As abruptly as Casey had taken hold of him, the NSA agent let go. Without a word, he walked back out onto the sales floor.

Rubbing his throat, Chuck realized that he'd just gained a very valuable piece of intel. Casey had a weakness. Her name was Ilsa.

OoOoOoOoO

Sarah pulled out of the LAX airport terminal heading for Burbank and her old Madison 23 apartment. As she approached the turnoff for the Buy More, she had an overwhelming need to lay eyes on Chuck as soon as possible. She made the turn, pulling off the highway.

Sarah never felt right going into any situation without all of the available information. She needed to understand what she was up against and get the lay of the land. She'd only been gone for a little while, but in that time, everything had changed. Besides the threat of Casey's presence in Chuck's life, Zondra was also in the forefront of Sarah's worries. She was still uncomfortable with the idea that Chuck's intuition about Zondra's innocence was warranted. He didn't know what she was capable of. Sarah had spent too many nights with her to know where Zondra would—or wouldn't—draw the line. If the shit hit the fan, Zondra would always find a way to come out smelling like roses, while everyone else wondered what the hell had just happened. She'd cover her ass before she gave a second thought to any repercussions. Zondra wasn't as bad as Carina, but she was close.

Sarah pulled into the parking lot and picked a spot in the far corner, away from the entrance to the Buy More. She sported a black wig, sunglasses, and made sure she kept her head down. Her car stood out enough on its own. There weren't usually many Porsches in a Buy More parking lot and she needed to be discreet.

Sarah had only been parked there for a few minutes when she saw Zondra come out of the Wienerlicious, frantically waving a towel to clear the smoke billowing out of the front door. They really needed to fix the thermometer on the fryer. Figuring out how it worked was an unavoidable employee rite of passage—something Sarah had learned the hard way, through frustration and burnt weenies.

Sarah hated to admit it, but Zondra looked really good in the awful uniform and pigtails that completed the stereotypical fraulein fantasy. Fighting her jealousy, she allowed herself a moment to bask in the thought of how degraded Zondra must feel to be wearing such a ridiculous outfit. At first, Sarah had felt the same way—but she'd changed her mind as soon as she'd seen the effect the getup had on Chuck when she'd visited him at work.

As if the universe was reading her mind, Sarah watched as Zondra put the 'Be Right Back' sign in the window, locked the door, and headed for the Buy More.

Sarah got out of her car. She waited till Zondra made it through the front door, then snuck up to peer through the glass storefront. Sarah was determined to see with her own eyes where her former best friend's intentions lay. She had to be careful, though. She wasn't ready to face Casey just yet. He required a completely different approach. An approach she really wasn't looking forward to utilizing.

She slipped her sunglasses off, used her hands to shield her eyes, and spotted Zondra right inside the sliding doors near the checkout stations. She hadn't made it too far into the store before being accosted by Lester and Jeff. Lester was asking her what Sarah assumed was a highly inappropriate question, while Jeff circled around Zondra like an awkward predator who could quickly become prey. For a moment, Sarah felt sorry for her ex-friend—a feeling that passed as soon as it came.

Sarah scanned the rest of the store. She spotted Chuck standing at the Nerd Herd desk, typing away on his computer. He wore a troubled look and kept glancing over his shoulder at Casey, who was up on a ladder stocking shelves. God, how had she left Chuck in such an awful situation? Guilt stabbed at her again.

Sarah looked back to where Zondra was standing. Lester and Jeff's enticements had failed miserably. Lester had a frightened look on his face and Jeff just looked confused. As Sarah watched, they both scampered away.

When it looked like Zondra wouldn't be bothered by any more Buy Morons, the CIA agent squared her shoulders, tightened her ponytails, undid the top button of her Wienerlicious outfit, and sauntered towards the Nerd Herd station with determination. Sarah immediately felt a sense of déjà vu, remembering when Lou, the deli-slinger, had looked at Chuck the same way not too long ago. Unbelievable. Sarah saw red—again.

OoOoOoOoO

Chuck sat at his desk in the center of the Buy More, apprehensive and jittery. He was entering the daily work orders into the system but was having a hell of a time keeping his mind on task. His confrontation with Casey this morning had left him shaken. He'd seen the NSA agent mad before. Hell, it was his resting state, but this was different. At the mention of his ridiculous nickname, Sugar Bear, Casey had become beyond livid. When the agent was choking him, Chuck had seen vicious, malicious intent in his eyes. After that, just knowing Major John Casey—his personal NSA would-be-assassin—was lurking in the store with him was enough to set Chuck's teeth on edge. He kept an eye on Casey as much as possible without looking too obvious. The agent had an annoying habit of sneaking up on him when he least expected it. Before, that had just aggravated Chuck. Now it was unacceptable. He felt the need to keep tabs on his location at all times.

He had no idea how long it would be until the new Intersect was fully operational—just that it was imminent. When that time came, Chuck knew Casey would take the first opportunity to fulfill his orders like the good little soldier he believed himself to be. Especially since Chuck was now on his shit list.

Chuck was also anxious for a completely different reason. Sarah was back in town and he needed to see her as soon as possible. Not only did he miss her, he needed her to help keep him from diving headlong off the deep end. It was one of the million-and-one reasons he'd fallen so hard for her. Yes, she was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen, but it was her competence and her compassion toward him that knocked him on his ass time and time again.

As Chuck mindlessly stared at the monitor, he had a strange feeling. It reminded him of all the times he thought Sarah might have been looking at him when he wasn't paying attention.

He glanced toward the front of the store in anticipation—but instead of Sarah, he saw Zondra dressed in the same outfit Sarah used to wear to work at the Wienerlicious. When their eyes met, she smiled, waved, and made her way down the center aisle to the Nerd Herd desk.

"Hey there, stranger." Zondra cocked her head and looked up through her lashes at Chuck. She crossed her arms as she leaned on the Nerd Herd counter, accentuating her cleavage. "I thought I'd come by and see how your day was going … and before you start, please don't give me any crap about this ridiculous outfit."

She glanced down, drawing even more attention to herself. Uncomfortable, Chuck refocused his gaze on the monitor—but Zondra just kept talking. "It's an unfortunate part of my new cover job. That, and that fire hazard they call a fryer."

"Uh, yeah—sorry about that. Sarah always hated it too." Mentioning Sarah's name made him feel better somehow—as if bringing her into the conversation negated Zondra's flirtatious behavior. "You know, that getup's also gonna attract a lot of teenaged boys around lunch time and after school. A regrettable side effect of the primal brain in the male species. I'm pretty sure that Dirndl dress was designed to bewitch most men." He shrugged in apology, hoping Zondra realized he didn't fall into that category. "Can't do anything about that, but I might be able to help you with the fryer. It took Sarah and me a bit of tinkering to figure it out."

She smiled at him. The look was probably meant to be inviting, but it had the opposite effect. "That'd be great, Chuck. I nearly just burned down the place on my first batch of breakfast corn dogs. Think you might have some time this morning? I'll buy you a mocha."

"Maybe a little bit later," Chuck said. If the day went the way he thought it would, they'd have bigger things than corn dogs to fry. "I have a feeling we're about to have some serious business to discuss. Matter-of national-security type of business. Casey's ex-girlfriend is in town along with a posse of Russian criminals."

Zondra bypassed the whole Russian criminal business and zeroed in on the most shocking part. "What? Casey has an ex-girlfriend? How do you know?"

"I flashed. Her name is llsa Trinchina, super-hot, super-sexy and staying at the Grand Seville as we speak. Apparently she has no qualms about hanging out with a bunch of Russian arms dealers, money launderers, and black-market smugglers either."

Zondra straightened, all business. "Did you let Casey know? You know we need to call this in."

"Oh, yeah. I let him know, all right. He almost ripped my head off." Chuck rubbed his neck, remembering. "It must've been a bad break-up. You know, for the longest time I always imagined Casey was built like a Ken doll. You know, downstairs?"

"Oh God, Chuck. Thanks for the mental picture," Zondra said, looking disgusted. "Did your flash have anything of interest on Ilsa?"

"Just that she's a civilian—a foreign national. The Intersect has like nothing on her, except love letters that now I'll never be able to scrub out of my brain." Chuck shuddered.

Just when Chuck thought the situation couldn't get any more awkward, Morgan sidled up to the Nerd Herd desk. His timing was always suspect when it came to pretty girls. Chuck sighed, not looking forward to explaining Zondra's presence in his life. He wanted desperately to tell his best friend the whole truth, but knew Morgan still had some growing up to do before Chuck could lay the weight of his secrets in his lap.

"Hey dude, who's your friend?" Morgan said, in full matchmaker mode. "Don't think I've seen her in the Buy-Moria before."

Resigned to the inevitable, Chuck gestured in the CIA agent's direction. "Hey, Morgan, this is Zondra. She just moved into Mrs. Kirkpatrick's old apartment over at Echo Park. Zondra, this is Morgan, my oldest friend."

"Zondra, huh? Working at the Wienerlicious too, I see. Interesting." Morgan looked Zondra up and down, but not in a salacious way. "You know, Chuck's a really great guy. I think you two could really hit it off. You see, his last relationship ended up in a big steaming pile of—"

"Morgan!" Chuck cut him off before he could swallow the remainder of the foot he'd shoved into his mouth.

"Sorry, Chuck," Morgan said, looking abashed.

Zondra gave him a toned-down version of her smile. "It's nice to meet you, Martin. And thanks for the tip, but I'm well aware of just how great a guy he is."

"Wow. You too, huh?" Morgan said, doubtless recalling his non-starter of a date with Carina. "It's Morgan, actually."

Chuck clapped Morgan on the back. "Don't take it personally, Morgs. I'm sure it's a common mistake."

"Sure, sure," Morgan muttered, sounding unconvinced. "Well, anyway. Customers to persuade, technological blunders to fix. Welcome to the Wienerlicious and to Echo Park—which is basically my second home. I'm sure I'll be seeing you soon."

OoOoOoOoO

Sarah's green-eyed monster was rearing its ugly head again. After watching Zondra interact with Chuck at the Herder desk, Sarah was sure that Zondra was interested in him. And Chuck being Chuck—his sweet, charming self—was making the whole situation worse. Was he aware of Zondra's intentions? She could tell that Chuck wasn't flirting back. He was just being the same friendly person he was with everyone, but that didn't stop her ex-best friend from laying it on thick.

What worried Sarah the most was, this wasn't the seduction technique she'd seen Zondra use with a number of marks over the years. No, this was a genuine display of affection that Sarah had only seen when Zondra was really into a guy. The way she tilted her head. Her crooked smile. Her suggestive posture. They were all signs that Zondra was either smitten or well on her way. That damned Bartowski smile had struck again.

Thank God for Morgan and his lack of decorum. She could've kissed the bearded guy for throwing a monkey wrench into Zondra's private little moment. Sarah had seen what she needed to see. Her mission back to Burbank had just gotten a lot more complicated. She knew what she planned to do with Casey, but Zondra was a whole different story.

She was about to leave when she spotted Ellie and Devon out of the corner of her eye, making their way toward the Buy More. Devon didn't spot her, but Ellie glanced over just as they were walking through the sliding doors and their eyes met. Ellie's eyes grew wide but she quickly schooled her expression. Even in disguise, Sarah knew Ellie had recognized her. She reached into her handbag, checked her pager, and placed a hand on Devon's forearm, whispering something into his ear.

"Well … what about our anniversary gift?" Devon said, looking disappointed.

"You know what, honey? Why don't you just surprise me, okay?" She pressed a kiss to his cheek. "Love you."

He nodded and continued into the store as Ellie turned and marched over to where Sarah was standing.

"Hi," Ellie said, giving Sarah the full once-over.

"Hi," Sarah replied, feeling unaccountably shy.

Ellie's lips curved in a smile. "Nice hair."

"Thanks," Sarah said, giving her wig a self-conscious touch. "It's kinda creepy, isn't it?"

Putting her hands on her hips, Ellie gave Sarah an all-too-familiar direct gaze. "Not as creepy as me catching you spying on your boyfriend through the windows of a Buy More. What are you doing here, Sarah? Are you back?"

After a life full of obfuscations, it was a relief to simply tell the truth for once. "I wish. Unfortunately, I'm just here for the next three days, then I have to head back till I find a more permanent solution. I had to sneak away from my assignment to try and fix the mess I left you and Chuck in and I may need your help. What did you just tell Devon?"

A guilty expression crept across Ellie's features. "That my pager went off and I was being called into work. Said I could just grab a cab and let him continue to shop for our anniversary gift to ourselves."

I didn't escape Sarah that now Ellie—Chuck's honest, call-it-as-I-see-it sister—was the one telling lies. "Anniversary gift? Ellie, I'm so sorry. I feel terrible, intruding on something like that."

"Nonsense. You and Chuck are way more important to me than a silly gift to myself," Ellie said, sounding far more like the protective, confident matriarch Sarah knew and loved. "Plus, I've already told Devon how much I wanted a new TV for the living room. He'll make the right choice if he knows what's good for him."

The weight of responsibility lifted from Sarah's chest. Ellie wanted to help—and right now, Sarah needed all the assistance she could get. "Well, if you're free, I'd like it if you could ride with me to my apartment. It'll give me the chance to explain everything to you when we get there. It's not really safe for me to be hanging around here much longer."

Ellie blinked, looking puzzled. "Not safe? What's not safe about a Buy More? Now I'm even more worried than I already was. I have so many questions I don't even know where to start. But I need answers and now's a good a time as any, so lead the way."

"I'll tell you everything, Ellie," Sarah vowed. "You'll have my full disclosure, I promise."

Sarah nodded toward her car and they both turned and walked silently through the parking lot. Before she unlocked the doors to her Porsche, she gave Ellie a relieved smile.

"It's so good to see you again, Ellie," Sarah said, letting her relief show in her voice.

Ellie smiled back. "It's good to see you too, Sarah."

Sarah and Ellie got in, buckled up, and pulled out of the Buy More shopping center, making their way towards Sarah's apartment. When Sarah hit the freeway she also hit the gas, slamming Ellie back in her seat. To Sarah's surprise, Ellie let out an excited whoop, grinning from ear to ear, her eyes watery. It was miraculous to discover that Ellie was a kindred spirit. She should have known not to underestimate Chuck's sister. It must be something in the Bartowski gene pool.

On the way, Ellie made some idle passing remarks but kept her questions to herself. As expected, they made their way to Madison 23 in record time. Sarah was grateful to still be paid up through the end of the month. It would give her the perfect base of operations while she was back in Burbank and wouldn't leave any additional trail that she'd been here.

Before they got out of the car, Sarah sent Chuck a quick text message. _I'm here, Chuck, and Ellie's with me… Long story_.

He responded immediately. _Ellie? Is there a problem? Devon's in the store right now, shopping_.

Sarah glanced over at Ellie. "Hang on a second. Just letting Chuck know what's going on."

"Take your time," Ellie said, giving her a mischievous grin.

_No, I just wanted her to be a part of this, _Sarah typed_. No more hiding things from either of you. Devon thinks Ellie was called into work_.

_Okay, that's great. Thanks for the heads-up about Devon_. There was a brief pause_. I'll come over and see you as soon as I can, but as luck would have it, I just had the motherlode of all bad-guy flashes and need to deal with the fallout before I can get away. I'll let you know everything when I see you_.

A sick feeling ripped its way through Sarah's stomach at the thought of Chuck being in any additional danger—especially without her there to protect him. _Okay, but be safe, Chuck, and let me know if you notice anything strange about Casey's behavior_.

_Stranger than usual, you mean? _ _ I will, but I think I'm safe for now, _Chuck wrote_. Looks like they still need me. _ _ I'll see you soon.  
_

Smiling despite herself, Sarah placed her phone in her purse and grabbed her suitcase. Together, she and Ellie made their way through the lobby of Sarah's apartment building. As Sarah pressed the call button for the elevator, Ellie spoke up.

"Sarah, I do have one question that I need an answer to before we get into anything else," she said as the doors slid open.

Sarah stepped into the elevator, her muscles clenching in trepidation. "What's that?"

She gave Sarah one of those disconcerting hazel looks that always made Sarah feel as if Chuck's sister could see right through her, CIA agent or no. "I need to know…"

Sarah pressed the button for her floor. "Yes?"

"Just how good are you?"

Sarah gave Ellie a wolfish grin, letting the other woman see her in her entirety for the first time—the girlfriend who would do anything to keep Chuck and his loved ones safe, and the ruthless, cunning CIA agent who'd been raised to lie, steal, and kill. "I'm the best, Ellie."

Chuck's sister stared at her, open-mouthed. In front of them, the doors whooshed shut, enclosing them in silence.

OoOoOoOoO

As Chuck texted with Sarah, he kept an eye on Zondra and Casey, who were having a discreet conversation in the back of the store. He really needed to get the hell out of the Buy More, but his handlers weren't going to let their precious asset out of their sight anytime soon.

Casey had already sent in his report about Chuck's flash to Beckman. Chuck had gotten the alert on his phone right before hearing from Sarah. His software captured everything. He'd even come up with a way to fool the tracker in his watch by faking his GPS location. If and when the shit hit the fan and Chuck had to implement some of his protocols, he wondered if Casey would be surprised that Chuck had always been five steps ahead of him.

Chuck glanced over at Morgan and Devon, who were chatting in front of the appliance section. Devon looked really excited about something—which, given that Chuck had a sneaking suspicion what he might be doing at the Buy More, couldn't be good. With a final look over his shoulder at Casey, he walked over to see what Captain Awesome was up to.

Devon turned towards him, wearing his trademark toothpaste-commercial grin. "Hey there, Chuckster. Beautiful, aren't they?" He pointed to the washer and dryer set. The look in his eye reminded Chuck of the way Casey used to regard his beloved Crown Vic. "Think of the things we can wash, bro. Ellie's gonna love them."

Oh, no. "You're buying Ellie a new washer and dryer? What's the occasion?" Chuck said, even though he had a sinking feeling that he knew.

Devon looked more excited than ever. "This year for our anniversary, we're making more money, ya know? So we decided to buy one large gift instead of two smaller ones. We were on our way here to pick out something when she was called into work."

"And my sister agreed to a household appliance?" Chuck cocked his head. "I thought I remembered her hinting to you about wanting a big-screen TV."

"She told me to surprise her. And these are awesome." He gestured at the shiny appliances.

"Yeah, I'm not sure about this, Devon," Morgan said, a hint of skepticism in his voice. "You think Ellie's gonna be cool with the washer and dryer?"

"It'll be great," Devon said, waving his hands towards the space-age appliances, like Vanna White on Wheel of Fortune. "Think about it. We can spend more time together."

Chuck gave Devon a dubious look.

"What?" Devon said, folding his arms across his chest. "No more laundromats. We can come home and go for a run without worrying about dirty shorts."

"But Ellie never runs with you," Chuck pointed out.

"Maybe she would with a drawer full of clean jogging bras," Devon countered.

Chuck paused, trying to figure out the most diplomatic way to phrase his response. Instead, he decided to just speak his mind. "Look, Devon. You know I usually don't get involved with you and my sister's relationship, but you getting what _you_ want isn't a much of a surprise. Do yourself a favor and get the TV. You'll thank me later."

Morgan backed him up. "I think Chuck's got a point about this one, Awesome."

"Maybe you guys are right," Devon said, casting a last longing look at the appliance section. "Okay Morgan, show me some big screens."

Chuck breathed a sigh of relief. Crisis averted. With a sense of satisfaction, he watched Morgan shepherd Devon toward the Great Wall of TVs. Turning, he made his way back to the Nerd Herd desk just in time for Casey to arrive at the counter, Zondra right behind him. The NSA agent slapped an off-site work order into his chest.

"Too many people in the store right now," Casey said, laconic as usual. "Briefing at my apartment in twenty minutes. Don't be late." He walked off without another word.

Zondra lingered, looking apologetic. "Do you need a ride, Chuck?"

"No thanks," Chuck said, desperate to escape. "I can just take one of the Herders. I'll use it to get to work in the morning."

"We could always carpool," Zondra suggested.

"Yeah, we could, but I'm on call tonight," Chuck said, lying through his teeth. "I'll need it if there's an IT emergency."

"Hmm. I may have to call in one of those myself." Zondra smirked. "See you at Casey's."

OoOoOoOoO

Sarah opened the door of her apartment and rolled her carry-on over to the closet. Ellie came in behind her, shut the door, and stood there watching as Sarah pulled out an RF bug detector and swept the room. When Sarah was satisfied the room was clear, she sat down in one of the two chairs near the window that overlooked the city. She set the detector on the table that separated the chairs, but kept it active just in case.

As good as it felt to be back in Burbank, she really hated these ugly green walls. It didn't feel like any home she'd ever dreamed of—more like purgatory. It was just a place to lay her head at night, but right now it served her purpose.

Sarah gestured to the other chair and Ellie sat down, an apprehensive look on her face. Still, she didn't hesitate to jump right in.

"Okay, Sarah. Now that you've completely freaked me out with your spy gadgets and your paranoid behavior, let's stop beating around the bush. Tell me what's going on. Is Chuck in trouble? What kind of mess are you trying to fix and how in the world could someone like me possibly help someone like you? I don't know the first thing about being a spy."

"I'm not _trying_ to fix anything. I _will_ fix this." Sarah looked Ellie in the eyes. "I don't want to freak you out, but I also want you to know the full scope of the situation and take it seriously. As soon as the new Intersect is ready and agents have been uploaded with it, Chuck will be targeted for termination." She swallowed hard. "John Casey was given the order last night."

Ellie's mouth dropped open in horror. "Termination? You mean they plan to kill him?"

Sarah nodded grimly.

Ellie shot out of her chair. "Oh my God, Sarah! They can't do that, can they? He hasn't done anything wrong."

"They can try, but I'm not gonna let that happen." Sarah let the full weight of her conviction show in her voice. "It's an illegal order. One I'm surprised Casey agreed to follow. He knows better than anyone that our Constitution protects the rights of its citizens. If it got out that Beckman, Graham, and Casey were even plotting such an action without due process, it would be considered conspiracy to commit murder. They would all go to jail or worse." She stared out the window, lost in thought. "It's a slippery slope though and we need to tread carefully. They are very powerful people and they'll claim to be acting under the guise of national security."

Ellie came to a halt in front of Sarah, her hands on her hips. "So what are we going to do? We're not gonna wait till they make their move, are we? We're gonna fight back, right?"

Sarah turned from the window and gave Ellie her full attention. "Yes, we're gonna fight back. It's going to take all three of us for what I have planned. When Chuck gets here I'll lay it all out so everyone knows their part."

Ellie quirked an eyebrow. "You've got something in mind for me?"

"Your job will be getting to know Zondra Rizzo, my replacement. I'll need you to be a good neighbor and keep her busy by welcoming her to Burbank Ellie Bartowski-style. Casey can't have any backup for what I have in mind."

"What exactly are you gonna do with Casey?" Ellie said, sounding intrigued.

"Whatever I have to, Ellie." She gripped the other woman's shoulders, holding her still. "There's nothing I wouldn't do to keep Chuck safe."

OoOoOoOoO

Chuck arrived at Casey's apartment with time to spare, but wasn't surprised to already see General Beckman on Casey's big-screen TV. She sat alone behind her desk, her stiff, no-nonsense demeanor on full display, and acknowledged Chuck with a curt nod as he entered the room.

Why wasn't Graham present for the briefing? Was he overseeing the completion of the new Intersect? The change in protocol made Chuck uneasy. He'd have to remember to tell Sarah about Graham's absence.

As soon as they were all assembled, Beckman wasted no time getting down to business. "We received your report, Major. Ex-KGB, Eastern-bloc thugs, Russian arms dealers. Frankly, we're not used to seeing this particular crowd stateside these days."

Casey gestured to the bust of his hero. "At least not since President Reagan won the Cold War, huh, General?"

Losing patience with this byplay, Zondra stepped forward. "So, what are our orders?"

Beckman leaned forward.** "**Agent Rizzo, I need you and the asset to get yourselves on site and see what—"

Now it was Chuck's turn to lose his patience. "I have a name. It's Chuck, or Mr. Bartowski, if you must. I'm tired of being treated like an inanimate object. I'm part of this team, whether I like it or not, and everyone needs to start treating me with some respect. If you continue to want my help, you'll—"

"Respect is earned, _Chuck_," Beckman said, cutting him off. "And you'll do exactly as you're ordered."

Chuck stared her down. "That works both ways, _Diane_."

"Bartowski," Casey warned, but Chuck wasn't finished.

"I'm not one of your soldiers who blindly follows your orders." He leveled a look at Casey. "Hell, I'm not even one of your employees. At least they get paid."

Color heated Beckman's cheeks. "That's enough! Major, get him out of my sight."

Casey grabbed Chuck from behind and frog-marched him out the front door of his apartment. With a hand between Chuck's shoulder blades, he shoved Chuck out into the courtyard, gave him a final glare, and slammed the door behind him.

Chuck stood alone and pissed off. He might have overstepped his bounds, but he was having a really hard time regretting his actions. These people were using him until he outlived his usefulness. When that time came, they'd throw him out like yesterday's newspaper without a second thought.

He sat on the edge of the fountain and waited to answer for his insubordination. They'd probably threaten to throw him in a bunker again, but he knew their long-term plans were far more frightening. Living underground was more appealing than not living at all.

After a few minutes, Casey and Zondra came out of his apartment. Casey looked like he wanted to turn Chuck inside out and Zondra looked like she wanted to eat him. Both expressions were troubling to see.

Chuck decided to head off the castigation. Looking at Casey pointedly, he spoke first. "I know what you're gonna say, Casey. You're about to threaten me with the bunker option or worse. Well, save your breath. I'm no one's slave. I'd rather face whatever consequences you people dream up than live another minute without my dignity."

Casey loomed over him. "You don't get it, do you, Chuck? I'm just trying to look out for you. Get your head out of your ass and stop antagonizing the brass. It doesn't serve any purpose."

"Fine," Chuck said, his tone more petulant than he intended.

"I'm serious, Bartowski," Casey said, in a tone Chuck had never heard from him before. It reminded him of the way Sarah or his sister spoke to him when they were concerned. "You need to keep your head down and follow orders … at least for now."

Chuck was caught off guard. Casey's instructions felt like a warning and a plea at the same time. And what had he meant by 'at least for now?' Did the NSA agent have other ideas besides blindly carrying out his orders? For the first time since overhearing Beckman and Casey's conversation, Chuck had his doubts. "Okay, Casey," he said, sounding far more conciliatory than before. "What's our orders?"

Zondra had been paying close attention to Chuck and Casey's exchange. Finally, she spoke. "They want us to infiltrate the Grand Seville. The hotel's bar has been booked for a private party early this evening. You and I are going undercover. We need you to press some Russian flesh. See what you can flash on."

Chuck thought of Sarah and his sister, both waiting for him, and gave an internal sigh. "All right, I'll clear my schedule. But only because you asked so nicely."

"Stay sharp, Bartowski," Casey said, sounding like his normal self. "It's up to you to tell us what these criminal agents are all doing in Los Angeles."

Puzzled, Chuck regarded him. "So, what about you, Casey?"

"What about me?" Casey said, leaning toward Chuck in a manner he could only describe as threatening.

"I don't know," Chuck said, pushing his luck. "I just thought if Zondra and I have to go to the hotel to press some Russian flesh, you might wanna drop in on a certain somebody whose name I will not—"

"Chuck!" Zondra interrupted, but it was too late. A closed-off look on his face, Casey headed back to his apartment and slammed the door behind him.

Chuck stared after him, perplexed. "Jeez, what's with that guy? He really doesn't wanna see his ex, does he?"

"I doubt it," Zondra said. "Casey told me Ilsa was killed."

Chuck felt sick. "Damn. This Intersect didn't have that information in it. Now I feel like an asshole."

Zondra placed a hand on his arm. "You couldn't have known, Chuck. Don't worry about it. I'll smooth things over with Casey. He's gonna sit out this mission for obvious reasons."

"Thanks, Zondra," Chuck said, seeing a chance to escape. "Look, I'm gonna—um—I think I need to take a drive and try and clear my head. What time do you want to meet at the hotel?"

"The Russians booked the hotel's bar from six to ten," she said, all business. "Let's say six-thirty so we can easily blend in with the crowd. Make sure to wear a suit. It's probably a formal occasion."

"No problem. I'll grab mine on the way out. Bye, Zondra," Chuck said, and headed for the Herder.

OoOoOoOoO

While Sarah waited for Chuck to show up, she told Ellie everything—not highly classified—that'd happened since she left Burbank. She went into great detail regarding Graham's nefarious comments about Chuck and the new Intersect. It was important Ellie understood that although Beckman and Casey were the immediate threat to Chuck, they were not the only threat he faced. Graham also needed to be dealt with when the Intersect went live.

Sarah didn't spell out too much of that part of her plan. Ellie was having a hard enough time as it was, plus there was not much a neurologist from Burbank could do to help. Sarah promised Ellie she would handle it and just asked that Ellie stay vigilant when Sarah wasn't around.

Just as Sarah had finished telling Ellie about Bryce's abysmal attitude when they first left Burbank, his guilt-ridden epiphany, and his current show of support for her and Chuck, a knock sounded at the door.

Sarah walked over and looked through the peephole. Chuck stood there, wearing his Buy More uniform, his curly hair mussed and his expression expectant. And suddenly, Sarah didn't care how ugly her green-on-green apartment was … as long as Chuck was here with her, it was home.

She exhaled with relief, threw open the door, and leapt into Chuck's arms, wrapping him up with her own arms and legs. She squeezed and kissed him within an inch of his life, and he returned the favor with enthusiasm. How did this man have so much passion and how was Sarah lucky enough to be on the receiving end of it?

As their kiss deepened, reaching a fever pitch that verged on highly inappropriate for an apartment hallway, an unmistakable sound came from inside the room—Ellie, clearing her throat. Sarah came back to reality with a thud—somewhat literally, as Chuck's arms loosened around her and her feet hit the floor.

"If you're done making out with my brother," Ellie said, coming to stand beside them, "I believe we've got a mission to plan."

* * *

A/N: We began this project as a fun collaboration to add to the Chuck fan fiction universe. We're a couple—Emily is an author by trade and Neil is an IT professional and a huge fan of the show. While this initially began as an entertaining side project, it has recently morphed into a vital distraction during a difficult time. Emily has been diagnosed with breast cancer and has just started her chemo treatments. While the prognosis is excellent, the process is harrowing and unpredictable. Please have patience with us if we aren't able to update as frequently as usual. Your reviews, feedback, and ideas give us something to look forward to and fuel our inspiration, so please keep them coming. As always, thanks for your support! —SmatterChoo.


	8. Russian Roulette

Chapter Eight … in which Chuck and Sarah cross a line, Casey gets a shock, Ellie joins the team, and Zondra ties things up.

Warning: This chapter contains a love scene that some might find a bit risqué. While we don't believe it crosses into the 'mature' category, it's not for children. Parental discretion is advised.

Disclaimer: We don't own Chuck…

* * *

**Chapter 8: Russian Roulette**

Deep, passionate love was in Sarah's grasp for the first time in her life—and it felt like a miracle, like a gift she'd never expected to receive and wasn't sure she deserved … but damned if she'd give it back. Aside from a tinge of embarrassment, she didn't even care that Ellie had just witnessed their heated reunion. She loved Chuck more in that moment than she'd ever thought possible to love anyone. Her only regret was that the good doctor had interrupted them.

Ellie had seen them kiss before, but not like _that_. Those cover kisses weren't real. They were just chaste little pecks meant to reinforce Sarah's presence in Chuck's life as his girlfriend. It was ironic that before, she and Chuck had had all the privacy in the world, and no intention of making good use of it—and now, when she wanted nothing more than to show Chuck exactly how she felt, here was Ellie, the inadvertent chaperone. Too bad they needed Ellie to be there, or Sarah and Chuck could have made good use of every horizontal surface in her apartment—and some vertical ones, too. Well, all in good time.

She blushed at the thought and looked up at him with a wicked smile. "Hi, Chuck," she said, trembling with excitement and adrenaline. Or was it Chuck that was shaking? It was hard to tell.

"Hi," he said softly, looking as if their kiss had fried his brain. He smiled back at her, his face happier than she'd ever seen it. Sarah wanted to bask in this feeling forever, but Ellie was right. He was still in danger and they had a mission to plan.

Ellie retreated into the apartment, giving the two of them a warning look over her shoulder—as if to ensure that they would follow her and not start making out again the moment her back was turned. Sighing, Chuck adjusted the strap of his satchel, picked up the car keys he must've dropped when Sarah leaped into his arms, and edged toward the door.

Sarah grabbed Chuck's free hand, eager for an excuse to touch him, and dragged him inside. She closed the door without letting go of his hand and pulled him with her as they walked past her bed. They looked at each other, then at the bed, then back at each other, and Sarah felt their hands shake even harder. So many times, they'd sat together in Chuck's room—but now, everything was different. On all of those occasions, the bed had been nothing more than a place for them to sit and chat, while conveniently reinforcing their cover. Sure, she'd thought about what it would be like to kiss Chuck, maybe even to do more—but the moment the thoughts occurred to her, she'd shoved them away. Now she allowed her imagination to have full rein, and it nearly undid her.

Her vagabond existence with her father had never afforded her the time to get close to anyone when she was a teenager. In truth, she was still relatively inexperienced, romantically speaking. She'd had a few _partners_—Bryce included—since she'd joined the CIA, but she'd never been intimate with someone she loved, and the thought both thrilled and terrified her.

She let go of his hand before she lost complete control and sat back down in the chair by the window. Ellie had already retaken her seat.

Chuck sat on the edge of the bed and dropped the satchel by his feet. The air felt supercharged. Once again, Ellie broke the silent stalemate.

"All right, Sarah. Your team's assembled and all the principals are accounted for. The floor is yours. So, what's the plan?"

It was a challenge, but Sarah managed to shift into her professional persona. "First, I need to be brought up to speed on what Chuck's latest flashes were all about and what's going on with his team." She turned to look at Chuck. "Has Beckman assigned you a mission?"

His eyes were on her face, their expression warm. He cleared his throat and straightened his back, making the same transition she had. "Yep. Just came from the briefing. I flashed on a treasure trove of Russian baddies staying at the Grand Seville hotel. They're having a little soirée at the hotel bar. Zondra and I have to go mingle and see what else I flash on," he said, a hint of guilt in his voice at the mention of Zondra's name. "Casey's sitting this one out, though. One of my flashes was on someone using the identity of Ilsa Trinchina, his dead ex-girlfriend. He looked pretty shook up about it."

"It's probably someone with a fake passport," Sarah said. "It happens all the time in Russia. People die and their personal info gets recycled."

Chuck recoiled. "My God. That's horrible. No wonder Casey's so messed up. I actually feel bad for the big guy."

The very thing she loved most about Chuck—his huge, open heart—was what put him in the greatest danger. "Don't do that, Chuck. Don't you go feeling sorry for John Casey," she said, leaning forward to emphasize the importance of her words. "You can't afford to lose your focus around him. Remember, he's the enemy here. The one that could end your life if we don't stay vigilant."

"Sarah's right," Ellie said, chiming in. "He's just a remorseless killer, Chuck. He doesn't care about you. We can't forget that." There was steel in her voice.

"I don't know, guys," Chuck said, fiddling with the strap of his satchel. "He said some things to me today that have me doubting this whole situation. Yes, I agree we should keep an eye on him, but something feels off."

Sarah knew better than to dismiss Chuck's instincts out of hand. Still, orders were orders and Casey was the perfect soldier. "What are you talking about?" she said, her tone skeptical.

Chuck shrugged. "It sounded like he was actually looking out for me. Said I needed to keep my head down and follow orders, but then amended it with 'at least for now.' That doesn't sound like the same ol' emotionless robot we've all come to know and love."

The last thing Sarah wanted to do was make Chuck think she didn't respect his perspective. Still, she didn't intend to let anything interfere with her primary objective: Keeping him safe. "I'm not so sure, Chuck. You know I trust your instincts, but we can't take any chances with this. Either way, I need to have the security in Casey's apartment disabled and loop the surveillance in the courtyard. Can you do that?"

"Sure, Sarah. Piece of cake. But what exactly are you gonna do?"

Sarah braced her hands on her knees. She'd thought her plan through carefully, but there were always risks. When dealing with Casey, she couldn't afford to take any chances. "The next time we're sure Casey will be away from his apartment, I'm going to break in, hide or disable his weapons caches, and wait for him to come back home." She bared her teeth. "John and I need to have a private little … heart to heart."

She spared a glance for Chuck and Ellie. The latter was staring back at her, eyes wide. "Just you and Casey? Do you think that's wise?"

"Sarah's the best," Chuck said, an unmistakable note of pride in his voice. "She can take care of herself … and him."

"So she tells me," Ellie muttered. "I take it this is when you want me to run interference with Zondra?"

Sarah nodded. "It needs to be just him and me. He'll either see things our way, like Chuck suspects, or … Beckman will understand just what happens when they decide to cross that line."

"And what's Chuck going to be doing during all this?" Ellie said, on the verge of going full momma-bear.

For once, they were on the same page. "Staying safe and making sure there are no traces I was here," Sarah said, looking right at Chuck to make sure he knew she meant it. "This isn't like all the times we asked you to stay in the car, Chuck. This time you're the target, and the danger's literally too close to home. I'm not taking any chances with your life."

"I'm not gonna lie, I'm still a little uneasy about all this. But you're the professional and I trust you. Sounds like you have everything covered." Chuck looked down at his watch. "Damn … I've got to run and get changed for tonight. My suit's in my car. Sarah, can you walk me out?"

She smiled in assent and they both got to their feet. "I'll see you later, sis," Chuck said, sketching a small salute toward his sister.

"Bye, Chuck," Ellie said. Her body tensed, as if it went against every instinct she had to let her little brother walk knowingly into danger, but she managed to give him a half-smile.

Chuck grabbed his bag from the floor and threw it over his shoulder as Sarah followed him out the door. When it closed, Chuck spun on his heel, a deep hunger in his eyes. He picked Sarah up and she let out a small, girlish squeal she'd never heard herself make before. Taking his time, he gave their earlier kiss a proper finish. He gently lowered her to the floor with their foreheads pressed together.

"You better be safe tonight and come back to me as soon as you're finished," Sarah said, breathless. "We have a lot of time to make up for."

Chuck just nodded, as if their kiss had robbed him of his ability to speak. Sarah loved how she could break him with a simple touch. He had no idea what he was in for. She grinned at the prospect. Would he survive? Hell, would she?

Her nerd walked down the hall towards the elevator. He looked back, eyes dazed, and then staggered, tripping over his own feet. Somehow, the man managed to make clumsiness look sexy. Sarah could hardly wait for tonight.

OoOoOoOoO

Putting on a tux in the back of your car isn't the easiest thing to do when you're six foot four and your car is shaped like a Tylenol capsule. But necessity is the mother of invention and Chuck eventually figured out a way to put everything on correctly. Everything but the bow tie. He couldn't get a good angle with the Herder's rearview mirror. He should've asked Sarah to help him out, but he'd been _slightly_ distracted when he was leaving her apartment.

As Chuck approached the hotel's entrance, he saw Zondra handing her keys to the valet. He imagined trying to valet park the Herder and the resounding laughter that would surely follow. Amused, he stepped onto the sidewalk next to Zondra, who wore a low-cut green sequin dress that fit her like a second skin. When Chuck was within range, she narrowed her eyes, grabbed the loose tie around his neck, and had him looking sharp in no time flat.

She gave him her crooked smile and patted his chest. "That'll do, pig. That'll do."

"Thanks, Z," Chuck said, touching his bow tie in acknowledgment.

"Z, huh?" The crooked smile quirked Zondra's lips again. "Not sure how I feel about that."

Where the hell had the nickname come from? "I-I'm so sorry, Zondra," he said, feeling like he'd overstepped. "It, it just slipped out. I promise I'll never—"

She looped her arm through the crook of his elbow. "Relax, Chuck. I kinda like it. At least coming from you. Come on, let's get in there."

Together, they strolled through the hotel's double doors. "Wow, this place is pretty swanky," Chuck said, taking in the high ceilings, dark wood, and elaborate wallpaper. "You know, I always feel so out of place wearing one of these monkey suits to events like this. Especially with someone like you on my arm. Sorry you have to go slumming it tonight."

Zondra's eyebrows rose in surprise. "Are you kidding? I wish you'd stop that, Chuck. You're quite the catch. I'm happy to be on your arm."

Chuck was about to reply when the last person he expected to see—John Casey—walked by. Chuck did a double take. "Casey, uh, hey. I just—you know what, I'm sorry about what I said earlier—"

"Drop it, Chuck," the NSA agent said, as tersely as if the name Ilsa Trinchina meant nothing to him at all. "You heard the general, we got work to do." He nodded in the direction of a group of people celebrating in the hotel bar. "There are our Russians."

Chuck trailed Casey and Zondra into the bar, which was when he noticed something unfortunate—he was the only one in formal attire. "Wait, wait, wait, this isn't a black-tie thing," he said, self-conscious. "I'm way overdressed."

Casey gave Chuck a quick once-over. "Yeah, lose the jacket."

The NSA agent helped Chuck out of his suit jacket and then tossed the jacket behind the bar. Before Chuck could question what the hell he was doing, Casey handed him a serving tray laden with bottles. "What's this?"

"Perfect," Casey said, looking amused.

Suddenly, everything became clear as Casey walked away. "You know, it would've been nice to know that I was the help on this mission," Chuck protested in an aside to Zondra. "I could've done some character study."

Zondra didn't dignify this with a response. Instead, she nudged Chuck forward, holding a serving tray of her own. "Okay, let's get to work. Scan the crowd and see if you recognize anyone."

It was hard work to hold a tray, negotiate a crowd, and flash simultaneously, but Chuck somehow managed. "That's, uh, Dmitry Siljak. Black-market arms dealer." He flashed again. "Sergey 'Noodles' Romanov. Freelance hit man."

Before Chuck could say anything else, a small, portly man zeroed in on his face. The man's mouth curved in a grin and he flung his arms wide. "Sasha! Is that you, my sweet Sasha?" he said in a heavy Russian accent. "Everybody meet fourth cousin on my mother's side! Come and give your cousin great big hug!"

For a second, Chuck thought Sarah had arrived and the man was somehow addressing her by her new alias. But no: Before Chuck could dodge or object, the man wrapped his arms around him, lifting Chuck off the floor. He squeezed Chuck so hard, for a moment breathing wasn't an option. "Ow! Ow! Hey. Ha, ha," Chuck said, trying to disentangle himself. He'd never anticipated being mistaken for part of a Russian crime family. Now what the hell was he supposed to do?

The man let go of him and started jumping up and down, like a demented Russian Jack-in-the-box. "Sasha, Sasha!" he said, his tone gleeful. "Sasha wants to dance!"

This truly was more than Chuck had bargained for. "No, nyet. Nyet," Chuck said as forcefully as he dared when faced with the might of the Russian mob. He searched the crowd for Zondra, but what he saw when he found her didn't make him feel any better.

One of the Russians had come up behind Zondra and, as Chuck watched, he had the nerve to whisper something into her ear. Chuck couldn't hear what he was saying to her, but when the guy patted her on the butt, his intention was clear enough.

Without missing a beat, Zondra grabbed the guy's wrist and twisted it behind his back. The guy's mouth contorted in pain as she replied. The moment she let him go, he shrank away. Chuck had to suppress a smile. Like Sarah, Zondra could take care of herself.

That was a good thing, because the Russian who had mistaken Chuck for his cousin chose that moment to turn the bar into a full-on dance party. "Get low. Get low, get low," he sang while everyone danced around Chuck in a circle.

Chuck didn't know what to do but go with the flow. He could hardly believe the inanities that spilled from his mouth as he attempted to imitate the crowd they'd come to infiltrate. "We are good dancers, aren't we, us Russians? Like, uh, Baryshnikov. Ha, ha. White Nights? Anybody seen White Nights? Do it like a Russki? Do it like a Russki? Yeah, we're in a circle. We're in a—" His voice cut off as he glanced over Zondra's shoulder and saw two women sitting on a high-backed loveseat. As one of them pressed a kiss to the other's cheek, he flashed again. Images of Sugar Bear and a woman Chuck had been sure was dead raced across his eyes for the second time in twenty-four hours. There was no doubt about it: Ilsa Trinchina was alive and well in Burbank.

He already had Zondra's attention. Lifting his hand, he pointed over her shoulder at Ilsa, trying to make it look as if the movement was part of the dance.

Unfortunately, the portly Russian mistook his gesture. Following Chuck's gaze in Zondra's direction, he said, "Sasha, you like brunette? Come! Very nice." He pushed Zondra toward Chuck. "She is all yours."

As the group began dancing around Chuck and Zondra in a circle—how the hell had this happened?—Chuck whispered to Zondra, "She's here. Ilsa is here."

Chuck felt Zondra tense against him. "Ilsa? As in, Casey's dead ex? Are you sure?"

Still dancing—truthfully, this was more coordination than Chuck imagined he possessed—he said, "Look over there." He pointed at the loveseat.

Immediately, Zondra lifted her wrist and spoke into her watch. "Your cover is compromised, Casey. You need to get out of here."

"What's going on?" Casey replied—and then froze in his tracks. Ilsa stood in front of him. As Chuck watched, Casey's eyes widened and his face paled with shock. Chuck couldn't hear a word that passed between them, but for once, the NSA agent's face said it all.

No matter what Sarah had told him about not feeling empathy for John Casey, in that moment Chuck couldn't help it. As he made his way out of the dancing throng, he saw Ilsa point to a locket that hung around her neck. From the flicker of emotion that coursed across Casey's face, Chuck could only surmise that the NSA agent had given the necklace to Ilsa as a gift.

Beside Chuck, Zondra shook her head. "This is not good. If we don't extract him now, this could blow up in our faces."

"Ow, come on," Chuck said, watching Ilsa and Casey's reunion. "The guy spent four years of his life thinking he'd never see her again."

Zondra reminded him of Sarah in mission mode when she spoke again. "I'm sorry, Chuck, but his cover's been blown. Let's move."

Exasperated, Chuck said, "Can't the man live without a cover for a couple of minutes?"

Before Zondra could reply, the PA came alive. A man with an angular face and receding hairline climbed onto a chair, microphone in hand, and faced the crowd. "Hello, everybody. How we doing tonight, huh? Good? Are we doing good?"

The moment Chuck saw the guy, he flashed. "Zondra. Zondra, I think I know what brought all the baddies together. Him, Victor Federov, a Russian oligarch with ties to everything from the Mob to a plot to overthrow Parliament."

Zondra said something, but Chuck wasn't paying attention. A spotlight came on, shining directly on Casey and Ilsa.

"And with this," Victor announced, "I'd like to introduce you to a woman who'll make me the happiest man on Earth by becoming my wife: Ilsa Trinchina."

Chuck was watching Casey's face when Victor spoke, and he knew he'd never again be able to think of the guy as an emotionless robot. Ilsa shot Casey a look of apology. She strode toward Victor, leaving the NSA agent behind and Chuck speechless.

OoOoOoOoO

Alone in her apartment, Sarah paced the length of the room. She'd been drowning in a tumultuous tangle of emotions ever since Ellie left to meet Devon for their anniversary dinner. Once she had time to think about the implications of her upcoming night with Chuck, fear mingled with desire. How could she share herself with him without sharing _all_ of her—the good, the bad, and the truly awful?

She'd promised him that as soon as she got the chance, she'd tell him everything about herself—and she had to keep that promise before anything else happened between them. She owed him that much. She'd even thought of a quick and easy way to tell him the most disturbing, darkest parts, cruel as it might be. But what if, after he knew everything, he couldn't stand the thought of being around her? What if he looked at her and only saw the same monster she sometimes perceived in her own reflection? She'd never recover if he did. It would destroy her.

Of course, none of that mattered if Chuck didn't make it safely home to her. She was worried sick about him being on a potentially dangerous mission without her. Even though she knew he was with two highly capable agents, they both had obvious shortcomings. One was—for the time being—kept at bay by standing orders to protect him at all costs, but that could change at a moment's notice. The other had her sights set on acquiring Sarah's nerd for herself. Not to mention, she still suspected Zondra of being a traitor no matter what Chuck said. Maybe some wounds just ran too deep.

Sarah's breath caught and a kaleidoscope of butterflies fluttered through her when she heard a knock on her door. She dashed over and flung it open without even checking to see who it was. There Chuck stood, still dressed in his full tux regalia. God, he was so beautiful. She grabbed him by the lapels, pulled him into her apartment, and kicked the door closed. Then she folded herself into him, her head on his chest and her arms inside his jacket, and squeezed him with all her might.

"Thank God you're okay," she said, choking on the words.

He held her tight. "I'm here, Sarah. Everything's fine … well, sorta."

Pulling back, Sarah looked up into his face. "What do you mean, sorta? What happened? Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," Chuck said, stepping away so she could verify this for herself. "It's Casey that's got some serious troubles. Turns out that his ex-girlfriend's not dead after all. In fact, she's engaged to a Russian oligarch by the name of Victor Federov. He's a real peach, too. Has ties to everything from the Russian mafia to a plot to overthrow the British Parliament. Casey's not taking it too well. Zondra had to follow him home to make sure he didn't do anything stupid." From the pained expression on Chuck's face, Sarah could tell he hadn't succeeded in suppressing his sympathy for Casey—not that she'd thought he would. "Anyway, it gave me a chance to slide out of there unnoticed. Don't worry, though—according to my tracker, I'm at Morgan's."

Sarah had been listening to every word Chuck said, and under any other circumstances, she would've had some choice words to share. Right now, though, her heart was pounding with anxiety. She had a confession to make. Casey and his magically undead ex-girlfriend would have to wait.

"That's pretty twisted about Casey and I'll want you to tell me about everything later. Karma's a bitch, I guess, but at least you came away unscathed." She stood on her tiptoes to kiss him, then drew a deep breath. "Come on. Let's sit down. We need to talk."

Chuck regarded her, his eyes narrowing. "I'm not sure I like the sound of that. Are you okay?"

He sounded both protective and concerned, and Sarah's heart swelled with love. She wasn't used to having someone look after her. Even her father had left her to fend for herself. Now here was her nerd, looking like he'd tear the world apart with his bare hands if something hurt her.

"Yes, Chuck. Nothing's wrong. I promise. I've just put this off for far too long." Her voice shook.

"You don't look like nothing's wrong. You look—scared, Sarah. What's the matter?"

"Just sit down, all right? Then I'll explain." She fought the urge to run from the room. No matter how terrifying this was, she had to tell him the truth.

Wearily, Chuck took off his jacket, laid it over the back of the chair Ellie had used earlier, and sat down. Sarah sat opposite him and clasped her hands together on the table between them.

"It's time, Chuck. I need you to know everything about my past before you can make an informed decision about whether or not you really want to be with me. It's not fair to you if I don't. I'm just praying you don't hate me once you've heard what I have to tell you." She mustered the strength that had allowed her to become the CIA's youngest, most lethal agent—God knew she'd need every bit of it to see this through. "Here goes."

Shifting in his seat, Chuck gave her his full attention.

She swallowed hard. Once she started speaking, there would be no going back. Gathering her courage, she began. "My real name is Samantha Elisabeth Rudnik."

It had been years since she'd spoken her birth name aloud. It felt foreign in her mouth, like a language she had spoken in childhood but long since lost the rhythm. She saw Chuck's lips moving, shaping the word 'Samantha,' as if trying it on for size. Sucking in another deep breath, she rushed onward. "I was born on April 30th, 1981 in San Diego to Emma and Antoni Rudnik. They were not what you might call a loving couple and my early childhood memories were filled with heated arguments and painful silence."

She spoke as emotionlessly as possible, but even still, she saw her pain reflected on Chuck's face. Averting her eyes, she glanced down at the glossy surface of the table. She'd barely begun, and already he thought her past was ugly. There was no way she could look right at him and say everything she had to say.

Clearing her throat, she said, "They divorced when I was around seven and I left with my dad. You see, my mother insisted that a child should grow up having basic rules and structure, but my dad never had much use for such things. When I was given the choice of who to live with, of course I chose my father. He was fun to be around and let me do as I pleased." She chanced a glimpse at Chuck's face. "It was the first choice I made that would eventually lead me into darkness. My father, as it turned out, was a confidence man. A con artist, and he taught me everything he knew from an early age…"

Sarah spent the next hour telling Chuck everything she could remember from those years. How much of her youth had been spent moving from city to city under a series of aliases, participating in her father's schemes, even when she was old enough to understand how wrong it was. How sometimes she was forced to stay with her grandmother—who didn't think much of her father—when he didn't need an adorable blonde-haired, blue-eyed girl to help him with his cons. When she'd covered everything she could remember, she finished by telling him how, when she was a high school senior, she'd come home from school to witness her father being arrested. She'd hidden in the woods near their house, and once her father had been cuffed and led away, she'd raced to find the stashed money he'd buried for emergencies. CIA Director Graham had found her first. He'd been the one to set up the sting on her father, claiming that it was for her dad's protection after pulling a scam on the wrong kind of people. Graham took her under his wing and gave her the cover name of Sarah Walker—and his enforcer was born.

The last words left her lips, and silence fell. Sarah was afraid to look at Chuck—afraid of what she'd see on his face. But he didn't say a word, and finally she summoned the nerve to meet his eyes.

He didn't look angry or disgusted. On the contrary, his eyes were deep brown pools, as if he'd been crying. "God, Sarah," he said, his voice rough. "That's the saddest story I've ever heard, and it breaks my heart that you had to go through all of that growing up. You were just a child and your father should have known better. It's not fair for you to have to bear all the weight of his sins." One of his hands rested on the table between them. He clenched it into a fist, squeezing until his knuckles whitened. "And as for Graham, he coerced you into joining the CIA by using your father as a bargaining chip. That's just wrong. He was no better than your father, using you like that. You were still in high school, for crying out loud_._ He had no right."

That was her Chuck—always seeing the good in everyone, making excuses for the awful things she'd done. She had to make sure he understood who she'd been back then—and how that person had shaped the woman she was today. She'd known what she was doing when she played along with her dad. If she'd gone along with his schemes because it meant he would pay attention to her, be proud of what she accomplished, it still didn't excuse the terrible things she'd done.

"I wasn't completely innocent, Chuck," she said. "I helped my dad with those con jobs knowing full well they were wrong. I hurt a lot of people pulling off those scams with him. The people we hurt—they were victims. Me? I was an accomplice to a hell of a lot of crimes."

Chuck leaned forward, eyes intent on her face. "Sarah, you were a child. Your father betrayed you by making you run those scams with him, and then Graham stepped in in his place and blackmailed you into joining the CIA. No wonder you don't trust anyone. Your mother let you walk away, and the two men you depended on as father figures acted completely corrupt. Parents are supposed to take care of their children. Not exploit them."

"But I went with my dad," Sarah said, her throat tight with the tears she wouldn't allow herself to shed. "I chose him. And hurt my mom. No wonder she didn't want anything to do with me."

"You were a _child_," he said again, reaching out to cover her hand with his. "Of course you went with your dad. He offered you fun and freedom. Your mom offered you structure. What kid wouldn't choose the parent who erased all the rules?" He twined their fingers together. "You may not have been totally innocent, Sarah, but this is not your fault. Every role model you had when you were growing up let you down. If it wasn't for Ellie after my parents abandoned us, there's no telling where I would've ended up."

Was it possible he was right—that Graham, her father, and her mother had failed to protect her? That the shame and guilt that washed over her whenever she thought about her childhood were a burden she no longer had to bear?

Sarah couldn't imagine living without that weight. It had held her down for so long, shaped her perception of herself. Whenever she considered a different life, it had seemed pointless, a pipe dream—like trying to scrub a disfiguring birthmark from her skin. She'd figured the career Graham had offered her was all she was good for—and the more skilled she became, the more she'd proved this theory right. It had made her happy to see the gleam in Graham's eyes when she pulled off a difficult mission, much as it had warmed her heart to make her father proud. Only now, looking at the kindness in Chuck's eyes, letting his words sink in, did it occur to her that everything she'd done in her childhood was just that—things she'd done, ugly or not. They didn't have to define who she was as a human being.

What she'd done as an adult, though, with full knowledge and consent—that was a different story.

"Sarah, honey." He brushed a strand of hair back from her face. "Do you believe me? They were supposed to take care of you. None of this was your fault."

She felt the first tear streak down her face, and locked her lips to keep from making a sound.

"Baby." He came around the table. Kneeling, he held her tight. "Do you hear me? It wasn't your fault. It was theirs. You're a good person. Trust me."

Sarah pressed her face against Chuck's neck to hide her tears, but she knew he could feel them just the same. He stroked her hair, his touch strong and sure.

"Maybe it wasn't all my fault, what happened back then," she managed finally. "But Chuck—I'm not a good person. I'm _not_. You wouldn't say that if you knew."

He took her by the shoulders, shifting her so he could see her face. Gently, he wiped the tears away. "Sarah, there's a lot of sketchy shit going on in our lives right now. A lot of what-ifs and question marks. But one thing I know for sure: I love you. Nothing you tell me about yourself will change that, or make me think you're a bad person. I know you better than that."

Sarah wished she could believe him—but her past was too tainted, filled with too many horrors for her to share them all. There was only one way to make sure he knew everything, and wanted her just the same. It was cruel, but it would work.

"I'm sorry to do this to you, Chuck, but I can't think of a better way for you to truly understand. Look at me," she said, and his gaze snapped to hers. Steadying herself, she spoke. "Sarah Walker, access code 5847167."

Chuck's eyes flickered for a minute as he flashed. Then his expression filled with pain and he pressed his hands to his face, covering it.

Sarah's heart sank. He couldn't even look at her.

He groaned and shook his head. When he let his hands fall, tears flowed down his face. "How could you do it, Sarah?"

"Please, Chuck." She took both his hands in hers. His fingers were freezing. "Don't hate me."

He shook his head again. "How could you survive all that you've been forced to do by that rat bastard Graham and still be who you are? The most wonderful person I've ever met. I'm in total awe of you, Sarah Walker."

She'd been braced for rejection or dismissal, for him to pull away and tell her that sure, he'd said nothing could change the way he felt, but he hadn't bargained on what he'd seen in that flash. She'd never imagined he could know everything—all the awful things she'd done—and love her anyhow.

"Wait," she said slowly. "What did you say?"

"For a talented, multilingual ninja, you're pretty slow on the uptake, Sarah Walker." He smiled through his tears. "I said I'd love you no matter what, and I meant it. But thanks for the headache. I've only flashed about seventeen times today. Next time, a little warning would be nice."

She tangled her fingers in his curls, holding him still, and let the wonder she felt show on her face. "How are you not repulsed by what you saw in my file?"

"Because I know who you are, Sarah. You're not the remorseless person who gave those orders, but you've had to live with the repercussions of those decisions anyway. Yet you've somehow managed to retain your humanity. I'm so proud of you for that fact alone. It's Graham that has blood on his hands, not you."

Sarah's fingers were still twined in Chuck's hair. She tugged him closer. "But Chuck, isn't that the same scenario that Casey's in? He would just be following his orders, like I did."

"No, because there were plenty of times you _didn't_ carry out your orders. Sometimes at great personal risk to yourself. I could name each one of them, but I think you know the ones I'm referring to. You either uncovered information that didn't justify the order, or you saw that innocent lives would be placed in danger if you followed through. Does Budapest ring a bell? And even when you did follow through with your orders, lives were saved. They were evil people, Sarah. All of them." He tapped his temple. "As far as I'm concerned, your hands are clean."

Stunned into silence, Sarah tugged Chuck even closer. He came, his eyes fixed on hers.

"I have a feeling you've hit a crossroads of sorts with your job in the CIA," he said, as calmly as if his lips weren't inches away from hers. It was an act, though; she could see the pulse pounding in his neck. "If Graham gave you another termination order today, would you be able to carry it out?"

"No, Chuck," she said as his hands came up to cradle her face. "I don't think I could do it anymore. After meeting you and seeing a future I never dared to dream of, it's just not worth the cost. I'd resign. My baggage handler has enough on his plate."

Leaning towards her, his voice was husky. "And that's one of the many reasons why I'm in love with you, Ms. Walker."

His mouth came down on hers. He tasted like salt and honey. A moan rising in her throat, she traced the seam of his lips with her tongue. He parted his lips, deepening the kiss. His hands were light on her face, holding her between them as if she were something delicate and precious. No one had ever touched her like that before.

A clawing, desperate sense of urgency rose inside her. She wanted more, wanted everything—but he was being so careful with her, it drove her crazy.

"Make love to me, Chuck," she whispered.

She felt him tremble. "Are you sure?"

"More than I've ever been about anyone or anything," she said, echoing what Chuck had said to Ellie. She trailed kisses down his neck, feeling the frantic beat of his pulse. His hands gripped her hips, pulling her tight against him.

"Sarah—"

"I'm done talking." She stood, taking him with her.

One moment, her feet were on the floor. The next, she was cradled in Chuck's arms, her arms wrapped around his neck, being carried like a bride over a threshold. Carefully, he placed her on the bed and lay down next to her, tracing the contours of her face.

"I agree," he said, his lips brushing hers. "We've talked enough."

A thrill ran through Sarah's body as his fingers found the hem of her shirt and tugged it slowly upward, revealing her skin bit by bit. She started to sit up, to help him, but he shook his head. "Let me," he said, and the desire she heard in his voice ignited a flame inside her.

He eased her shirt over her head and ran his hands down her body—sketching the line of her throat, dipping between her breasts, tracing her sides. He drew his finger lightly across her stomach, and she shivered at his touch.

No one had ever touched her like this—like nothing mattered more than this moment, and they needed to make it last. No one had ever wanted to show her how much they cared about her without even considering their own needs. Even now, when she'd offered herself to him, Chuck was still making this moment all about her—seeing to her pleasure before his own, putting her first. It slayed her.

His fingers went to her jeans, loosening the button. One torturous millimeter at a time, he pulled the zipper down, then cupped her hips in his hands, lifting them. His hands were warm on her skin as he slid her jeans off and tossed them to the floor. Then he sat back and simply looked at her.

"Sarah, you are so beautiful." His voice was reverent.

He thought _she _was beautiful? With his dark eyes fixed on hers and his curls tousled from her grip, his face soft with love, he was the most gorgeous man she'd ever seen. And he was hers. All hers.

How had she gotten so lucky?

She reached for him, fisting his shirt. "Your turn," she said.

As usual, Chuck didn't listen. Instead he slid over her, still in his tux, sans the jacket. "Oh no. Not yet," he said. "I've waited a long time for this, Sarah Walker. You can damn well wait a few more minutes."

Sarah opened her mouth to protest, but Chuck stopped her words with a kiss. She nipped at him and he pulled away—only to continue torturing her. His breath was hot as he skimmed kisses along her throat, his tongue tracing a delicate line along the juncture of her neck and shoulder. She shivered under him as his lips found their way lower, grazing the swell of her breasts.

He'd barely touched her, and she was about to shatter. She struggled to hold herself still, but it was a useless pursuit. He had her under siege, heart and body both, and she wanted him so badly, it made her soul ache.

Her bra had a front clasp; he unhooked it and sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth. "God, Sarah," he whispered, one hand sliding up her belly to cup her breast. His fingers circled her nipple so it rose beneath his touch; his head bent to her other breast, kissing and sucking until she cried out. She dug her nails into his back through the fabric of his dress shirt, and he laughed, a low sound of masculine triumph she'd never heard Chuck make.

"Definitely making you wait," he said, levering himself back over her, and then his mouth was on hers, coaxing, demanding.

She wrapped her legs around him and rocked upward, making a demand of her own. He moved with her, letting her feel that he wanted her just as much as she wanted him—but then he pulled back, kissing his way down her body, taking the time to worship every inch. It was crazy, but she could swear she felt the weight of his love with each brush of his lips, each caress. Her heart pounded, pulse beating so hard she was sure he must feel it. How had she lived without this man?

Her thong was blue silk; she felt the warmth of his mouth through the material, a moment before he ripped the scrap of silk straight down the middle and his tongue found her, spearing inside. Knotting her fingers in his curls, she arched her hips. "Chuck—please—"

He made a low, hungry sound that reverberated through her body, his stubble rough against her thighs as she wound her fingers in his curls. "Please," she said again, not caring how desperate she sounded. She'd been right—the chemistry between them was pure fire. "Chuck, I need to be with you. Right now."

He lifted his head. "Well," he said, "since you ask so nicely."

Kneeling between her legs, he started to strip. A man wearing a tux was inherently sexy. First the tie. Then his cuffs. Then the shirt, one careful button at a time. Teasing her, even now.

Losing patience, she surged up and grabbed him, ripping his shirt so hard the buttons popped off, rolling onto the floor. She tossed the shredded garment over the side of the bed. "You," she said, giving similar treatment to his pants, "will pay for this."

"I look forward to it," he said, his mouth finding hers. He pressed her down onto the mattress, their hands knotted together. "I love you," he said, as he slid inside her, filling her completely, body and soul, and they began to move.

She wanted to tell him she loved him too, but her mouth was too busy to speak—and as he circled his hips, stoking the blaze he'd lit, she decided her priorities lay elsewhere. If she had it her way, she'd have a lifetime to tell Chuck exactly how she felt.

Minutes—more likely hours?—later, the two of them lay side by side, panting, their bodies sheened with sweat. Sarah had no idea how much time had passed. She'd lost herself in his arms, come apart in a way she'd never imagined possible. And he'd followed her over and over, calling out her name each time.

She felt like her body had shattered into a million pieces—and when it came back together again, Chuck was entwined with every molecule. He was part of her now, a deep, immeasurable intimacy she treasured more than anything she'd ever experienced—and that scared her in equal measure. Keeping him safe wouldn't just be an act of love, now—it would be damn near self-preservation.

"Hey." He traced the palm of her hand. "You okay?"

She rolled toward him, resting her free hand on his chest and her head on his shoulder. She could feel his heart beating, steady and slow. "More than okay," she said, giving him a cat-in-the-cream smile. "Awed. Amazed. And so goddamned freakin' lucky, it terrifies me."

"You stole my lines," he said, smiling back at her. "Seriously, Sarah, was it all right for you?"

She couldn't help it—she started to laugh. "Chuck, that was the most incredible experience of my life. 'All right' doesn't begin to cover it. Couldn't you tell?"

"I thought I could," he said, sounding like his normal self. "But I wanted to be sure. So I can improve on my performance next time, you know?"

Sarah had to stifle a snort. If he improved on it much more, she wasn't sure she'd survive. "I'm happy to give you detailed feedback, if you'd like. But first—much as I hate it, there's something we need to discuss."

He sighed. "You're still worried about Casey, aren't you?"

Sarah nodded against his chest.

"Yeah, I figured we'd circle back to him eventually," Chuck said, stroking her hair. "Although I'm not gonna complain about our little detour."

Sarah swatted his chest, looking up at him with a wide grin. "There was nothing _little_ about what just happened, Chuck. And I guess I should have figured that out before tonight. You know what they say. Big hands, big feet, big …" She looked him in the eye and paused for a strategic moment. "…heart?"

Chuck threw his head back, laughing. "I thought you said you weren't funny."

She shrugged, reveling in the feel of his hand moving through her hair. His fingers slid lower, massaging her neck, and she purred in satisfaction.

"You're right. I do want to talk to you about Casey," he said, pressing deeper. "Look, Sarah, it's not that I don't trust you to keep me safe, and by all means, do what you think's right with confronting him, but I think I need to take a different approach."

Sarah propped herself up on her elbows and narrowed her eyes at him. "Chuuuck—" She drew out his name in exasperation.

"Hold on, Sarah. Hear me out." He tugged her back down, nestling her against him. "The more I think about how Casey's acted towards me lately, the more I think I'm right about his true intentions and his ability to pull the trigger on an innocent. I know you think it's crazy, but I really think he's looking out for me. I believe he's come to somewhat of a crossroads with this assignment here in Burbank. Maybe not as extreme as yours"—he ran his hand down her side, letting it come to rest on her hip—"but a crossroad nonetheless. I've seen a change in him, however subtle it may be. Beneath his gruff exterior, I think he's become a big 'ol softie, and I aim to prove it."

She skated her nails across his chest. "And just how are you gonna do that?"

"By being a good friend to him." His body tensed as her hand skimmed lower, but his voice stayed steady. "I can tell he's hurting right now with the whole zombie ex-girlfriend thing and I'm going to be a shoulder for him to cry on."

Sarah closed what little space remained between them, feeling the heat of Chuck's body against hers. "This is Casey we're talking about, right? He's not really the wearing-his-heart-on-his-sleeve kind of guy, Chuck."

His eyes were at half-mast now, their expression hungry. "Maybe not, but if I can get him to open up, at least a little, perhaps he'd feel comfortable enough to confide in me about the termination order. Plus, I'd really like to help him out with the Ilsa situation, ya know? He could really use a friend to see him through this." He trembled beneath her touch, his hands roving over her body. "Who else does he have, Sarah? If you died, it would devastate me. Wreck me. And then to find out you were alive again—only to lose you thirty seconds later to another man—there aren't words for how I'd feel." Brushing his lips over the base of her neck, he said, "Either way, keep your friends close and your enemies closer, right? If he turns out to be a lost cause, at least we'll know we tried everything before having to resort to the unthinkable."

Sarah tilted her head back, tangling her fingers in his hair. He took the hint, kissing his way down her collarbone, finding the places that made her moan.

"Okay, Chuck," she said, her voice breathy. "I'm still kind of skeptical, but if anyone can thaw out Casey's frigid heart, it's you. Trust me, I should know."

"Hmmm." She felt him smile against her skin.

"While I'm here, get as close to him as you can," she said, struggling to stay on task. "It'll give me the perfect opportunity to carry out my part in _our_ mission. You can alert me if he decides to make a surprise visit to his apartment."

He cupped her breast, toying with the nipple. "All right."

Damn it—how could he sound so controlled? She fought to focus. "Tomorrow, when you know you'll have his attention for an extended period of time, let me know what my window will be, bring down his security, and loop the surveillance. No matter how things turn out—by the next day, you'll either know you're safe or we'll both be on the run."

That brought his head up. "God, I hate that it's come to this. Please promise to be careful. Nothing can happen to you."

"I will." She felt cherished—another first—but horrified at the thought of Chuck being in danger, without her there to protect him. God, why had she kissed Bryce? If she hadn't been so stupid, she and Chuck would be together, and she wouldn't have to be in hiding. She'd wasted so much time. "I need you to promise to contact me at the first signs of trouble no matter where you are or what you're doing. I'll come to you."

"I promise," he said, dark eyes fixed on her face.

How could two words be so erotic? Maybe because when Chuck loved, he did it with his whole heart—and when he made a promise, she knew he'd keep it. She felt like he was promising her so much more than to contact her if things went bad—that he was promising to love her, to be with her, to accept her even with all her flaws. Joy washed through her, inexorable as the tide—and with it, desire.

She rolled on top of him, and his eyes went wide. "Good," she said, undulating her hips. "Now that that's out of the way, it feels like you may be ready for another detour."

His hands settled on her hips, moving her how he wanted. "Oh, I could probably be talked into it. I just don't know if—"

She bent over him, her breasts grazing his chest, and placed her finger on his lips. "Chuck," she said, "shut up and kiss me."

OoOoOoOoO

Chuck woke up the next day feeling physically exhausted and emotionally elated. Last night had been the most memorable, erotic night of his life. Some of the things he and Sarah had done with each other escaped the laws of physics. She'd insisted they try out every horizontal surface in her apartment for some reason—not that he was complaining—and then suggested they make use of some vertical ones as well. Man, was she flexible. He'd have a hard time getting the visions out of his head for years to come.

It had been late at night or early in the morning—depending how you looked at it—when their lovemaking finally came to an end and Chuck had to make his reluctant way back home. And now here he was, staring up at his ceiling, contemplating his new life.

In the course of one night, everything had changed. Sarah was now so deeply ingrained in his psyche, he wouldn't be able to survive long without her. He needed her now like he needed air. And that meant he was in serious trouble.

After last night, Chuck figured there were two possible outcomes. Sarah would either have to go back and partner with Bryce after her short visit here—oh, joy!—or they'd both be on the run, never to see Chuck's loved ones again, most likely with Casey's death on their hands. The thought made him sick.

He was determined to make sure the latter didn't happen. Sarah could always find a way back to Chuck if she had to leave, but there'd be no way back if she had to take Casey out. Plus, Chuck really did love the big guy, and killing him would probably wreck Sarah's precarious emotional state, given her recent revelations about her past. Even though she'd never said, Chuck knew she had a soft spot for Casey.

Well, he could lie here in bed envisioning eventualities forever, but that wouldn't solve their problems. It was time for Chuck to start his day, no matter if he was ready for it or not. He dragged himself out of bed, showered and shaved, and made his way to the Buy More, coffee in hand.

After clocking in and directing his Herders on their daily assignments—all of which felt incredibly mundane, given the past twenty-four hours—Chuck spotted Casey up on a rolling ladder pricing goods. He made his way over and tried his best to thaw out the NSA assassin.

"Hey, buddy," he said, as gingerly as if he was attempting to disarm a bomb—a sensation with which, unfortunately, he was all too familiar. "How you feeling?"

"How am I feeling?" Casey repeated, looking down at Chuck with a blank face, as if the words didn't compute.

Chuck persisted. "Yeah, uh, you know, about last night."

Casey shot another box with the price gun. "Our mission was a success. You ID'd Victor Federov. Agent Rizzo has been assigned to set up a surveillance on the target. In short, I feel fine-effing-tastic."

Could he make this any more difficult? "Well, okay. I mean, I guess, uh, you know, I was referring more to the 'you-and-Ilsa' situation. Thought maybe you'd wanna talk about the fact that the girl you thought was dead isn't actually dead."

The NSA agent climbed down from the ladder. He looked Chuck in the eye, aimed the price gun threateningly in his direction, and said, "No."

Chuck had to fight the urge to flee. What must it have been like to be Ilsa Trinchina—to have a stone-cold killer like this go soft when he looked at her? "Great, good, good. Really good session here, Casey. Really feel like we're making a breakthrough," he said, which had the expected effect of making Casey roll his eyes.

Determined, he tried again. "Look, I just—I just want you to know that I'm a good listener. Okay? So if you ever wanna talk about anything—if you wanna use me as a sounding board for your emotions, or—"

His voice cut off as Casey raised the gun and used it to seal Chuck's mouth shut with price tags. The agent turned and walked away, whistling.

Maybe this was going to be a lot harder than Chuck had thought. He'd have the rest of today and tonight to find out, and then it'd be too late. There would be no turning back after Sarah and Casey's confrontation.

* * *

A/N: Thanks so much to everyone for your reviews, encouragement, and kind words. You support means the world to us. As an expression of our gratitude, we're getting you this latest installment a little ahead of time. Although this week was really rough for Emily, your feedback inspired us to be creative and kept us going during a challenging time. Thanks for being such a fabulous community.

As always, we want to know what you think! Please leave a review.


	9. Bombshell

Chapter Nine … in which Chuck breaks a promise, Sarah and Ellie make a shocking discovery, Zondra sets her sights on what she wants, and Casey takes a risk that doesn't pay off.

This chapter covers Sarah's second day back in Burbank. She only has one more day to ensure Chuck's safety before she has to return to San Francisco—and things are about to get dicey.

Disclaimer: We don't own Chuck…

* * *

**Chapter 9: Bombshell**

What the hell. Had Chuck really been over at that bearded gnome's house 'til almost six in the morning? Zondra could only guess that he and Morgan had spent the night playing video games. She didn't understand Chuck's fascination with that kind of pastime. He seemed more mature than most people she'd known, and for him to spend that much time playing pointless games didn't make much sense. But wasn't that what fascinated her in equal measure? Chuck was a kid at heart and found a childlike joy in just about everything. He was such an enigma.

She'd almost taken her Jeep to go check up on him in person, but Casey had once told her that Chuck and Morgan liked to do this kind of thing from time to time. He called it their 'Nerdathon' and said Chuck would be safe as long as he didn't go anywhere else without letting them know. If it wasn't for her orders to keep an eye on Casey after the Ilsa debacle, she would have checked on him anyway, if only for her own peace of mind. Chuck was too important to her now.

Eyes fixed on the crappy painting of the ocean she'd bought to help furnish the apartment, she lay in bed, beyond exhausted. She'd stayed up most of the night, periodically monitoring the tracker in Chuck's watch. Concern for him was her main motivation, but it was her job, too—and that was another problem she hadn't figured a way around yet. The rules were clear. Handlers weren't supposed to have these kinds of feelings for their assets. If she ever let that tidbit slip with her superiors, she'd be reassigned so fast her head would spin.

Zondra knew their worry was justified in this case. Sure, she'd burned her fair share of assets on past assignments, but she wouldn't be able to do that with Chuck. She'd only felt like this one other time in her life, and that had ended in heartache. The similarities between now and then couldn't be ignored.

Of course, she'd been read in on what had happened between Chuck and Sarah before arriving in Burbank. Walker had been Chuck's handler from the time he received the Intersect, but after blowing her cover by kissing Bryce in Chuck's bedroom in front of his sister, she'd been reassigned to partner with Bryce again. That thought had kept Zondra awake for the past few nights. It was like the spy gods were poking her with a stick.

Chuck had been insistent that he and Zondra should remain friends for their cover—without benefits. His reluctance had her at a loss. She knew he thought she was beautiful. That much was clear. His comments about her slumming it with her on his arm kept replaying themselves over and over in her mind. But she'd been honest with him when she'd said she was happy to be there. Was there something else at play here? Or _someone_ else?

Although Chuck had never said anything specific about the nature of his relationship with Sarah, Zondra had a sneaking suspicion Chuck had fallen for her ex-best friend. It wouldn't be the first time that that had happened. It was just too ironic.

Zondra thought back to her time at the Farm. She'd met a guy there who'd also captured her heart. He was handsome and charming with a smile so bright, she had a hard time looking directly at it. They'd trained together, studied together, ate together, and spent all their free time together. They were truly inseparable. Once they graduated, they were given different assignments. Even though she'd pushed to be partnered with the guy, Graham had other ideas. They tried to stay in contact with each other over the years, but the physical distance and their incongruous circumstance proved to be too much for both of them, and they eventually lost touch.

Zondra was determined not to let the same thing happen between her and Chuck. She just needed to let him know how she felt. Walker had made her choice, and now Zondra would make hers.

Luckily, today was a respite from her worries—a solo mission. That should give her the time she needed to sort through her feelings. With Casey's cover blown, it was up to her to infiltrate the hotel and get bugs planted on the Russian targets.

She summoned the will to get out of bed and start her day. Checking Chuck's location one more time, she was surprised to find him already at work. Great—he was Casey's responsibility for now. Time to move out.

Once she was dressed and equipped for the day's mission, she made her way over to the Grand Seville hotel and strolled through the front doors, insouciant as you please. Blending in with a small group of people who were making their way to the elevator, she split off from them and ducked down a hallway that led to the employees' service entrance.

The hallway was deserted. Still, Zondra put her ear to the door marked "Authorized Personnel Only" to make sure no one was on the other side. Thank the spy gods; she was alone.

Reaching into her messenger bag, she pulled out a device that scanned for the hotel's master security code. The device whirred, programming her card to open any door in the building. Drawing a deep breath, she swiped the card and walked inside.

She was in the employees' locker room. Surveying the lockers, Zondra chose one that was closed but not locked. Inside was a black-and-white server's uniform. She slipped it on, shoved her clothes into the messenger bag, and closed the locker. So far, so good.

OoOoOoOoO

Some might call Chuck a masochist—a glutton for punishment due to his willingness to persevere in the face of insurmountable odds—but he refused to accept Casey's noncommittal attitude toward someone that'd obviously meant a great deal to him at some point in his life. He just couldn't fathom how Casey could be so indifferent about Ilsa's abrupt resurrection and imminent engagement to another man—a bad man.

After Chuck's amazing night with his girlfriend—God, he loved being able to use that word—he was now even more sympathetic to the big guy's situation. Chuck wasn't exaggerating when he told Sarah it would destroy him if the situations were reversed. He was intent on helping his friend out of his funk—if he could only get Casey to open up and start talking.

So here he was, sitting at a table in the Buy More's break room, staring at Casey eating a sandwich. The NSA agent ate mechanically—chew and swallow, chew and swallow—with no regard for what he was consuming. It might as well have been a cardboard Panini on rye.

Chuck shook his head and cleared his throat, bracing himself for the probable backlash. "I don't care what you say, Casey. I know you want to talk about this," he said, not bothering to qualify what 'this' meant. They both knew. "You're only human. It'll make you feel better, I promise."

"Hmm," Casey grunted around a mouthful of sandwich.

He leaned forward, giving Casey his most inviting smile. "Come on, buddy. Just give me something, anything. Where's she from? Or, where did you two meet?"

Casey dropped his sandwich onto the paper plate and glared. "Why is this so important to you, Chuck? Why the hell do you care so much about me and Ilsa?"

That was a good question. If the truth be told, Chuck wasn't sure he'd be asking so many questions about Ilsa if it wasn't part of his plan to win Casey over—and save his own life in the process. "I don't—I don't know, man, okay?" he stammered. "I just—I think it'd be nice to know you had a life before … this. I just figured if a guy like you can find love—no offense, Casey—then maybe this whole spy business isn't as screwed up as I think it is."

"Hmm," said Casey, reclaiming the sandwich and taking a massive bite.

Chuck lost his patience. "'Hmm'? That's, that's … Okay, you know what? If you wanna go through life emotionally constipated and alone, then suit yourself. I'll let you get back to protecting the greater good, you freaking robot."

He stood and turned to go, just as Casey spoke. "I met her in a flower market. In Rome. Ilsa was the most beautiful thing I had … ever seen."

Chuck stood still, like a hunter who'd spotted a deer in the woods and was terrified that any sudden movements would spook it. "Wow," he said, hoping the NSA agent would find this to be an encouraging opener.

"I introduced myself to her. I swear, it felt like I had no choice in the matter. She just had such a dazzling smile. You should have seen it, Chuck. I was a goner from the very beginning."

Slowly, Chuck turned back around. Casey sat there, sandwich forgotten, his eyes soft. And then, for the first time since Chuck had met him, the NSA agent confided in him. He talked about the day he'd met Ilsa, the whirlwind romance that followed, and the awful day when Casey believed she'd been killed by a bomb right outside of a Groznian hotel they'd shared.

Casey wasn't a robot. He was a closed-off, angry-as-hell dude who'd dared to let his guard down once, had his heart broken, and had never fully recovered. Then he'd been granted a miracle reprieve—only to discover, seconds later, that the woman he'd loved and lost was engaged to another man.

If there was one thing Chuck understood, it was losing someone you loved. Perhaps he and the NSA agent had more in common than they'd ever imagined.

OoOoOoOoO

It was time to move.

Sarah had been sitting in her Porsche down the street from Echo Park for an hour, waiting for Chuck to tell her it was go-time. Five minutes ago, she'd gotten a text from him:

_Having a heart-to-heart with the big guy. You should be good to go. Also, Zondra's on a solo mission at the Grand Seville, so you're clear on that front as well. Just give me 5 min to bring down the security and loop the surveillance in the courtyard. I'll text you when I'm done.  
_

True to form, five minutes later, she'd gotten another text:

_All clear. Be safe. Love you.  
_

Just reading the last two words gave her chills in the best way, thinking about last night. She forced her mind away from images of the two of them making love—not the easiest thing to do, given how amazing the experience had been—and made herself focus on the mission at hand. If she didn't do this right, she could lose him—and that was unacceptable. She owed it to him to be at her best, even if that meant putting thoughts of him aside.

_Love you too, _she typed back, and then dropped her phone into her bag. She'd texted Ellie while she was waiting to hear back from Chuck. His sister was home and would be waiting.

She got out of the car and strode toward Echo Park, donning the ridiculous wig and sunglasses again. Man, the wig itched. She hated wearing disguises like this. One way or another, soon she'd get to be herself again.

Wig or no wig, Ellie recognized her as soon as she walked into the courtyard. "Black's really not your color," Ellie said, a smile curving her lips despite the circumstances. "Next time, maybe go with a redhead or something. More your style."

Sarah felt herself smiling back. If Carina ever thought Sarah was trying to Single White Female her ass, she'd never hear the end of it. "I didn't have much time to go shopping, but I'll keep it under advisement. You still cool to be a lookout, since Zondra's out of the picture for now? She's supposed to be on a solo mission at the hotel, like I said, but she could come back anytime."

"What exactly does a lookout _do_, besides the obvious?" Ellie wrinkled her nose. "I mean, I did read Harriet the Spy, but that was like twenty years ago and I imagine you've got a few more tricks up your sleeve. Do we have a secret hand signal? A code word? Do I whistle if someone's coming? I want to do this right."

It was tough, but Sarah managed to keep from laughing. "Chuck's right, you are a perfectionist."

"Is that a problem?"

"No. It's great. Just—there's not too much for you to worry about. You're literally going to be a second set of eyes and ears. I doubt Zondra would have the cojones to walk into Casey's apartment without him there, and as for Casey himself, Chuck's got him covered. If someone's coming, just tell me, and we'll get the hell out."

Ellie looked crestfallen. "So the secret code word for 'someone's coming' is … 'someone's coming'?"

"The simpler, the better," Sarah said, squeezing Ellie's hand. "But don't worry. I have lots of cool gadgets and what Chuck likes to call my 'ninja moves.' Stick around long enough, and I'll show you the ways of the Force."

A grin broke out across Ellie's face. "A Star Wars reference?" she said, looking Sarah up and down with newfound respect. "Now I know you love my brother."

"More than I thought possible." Sarah let her hand fall and started moving toward the apartment. "And that's why we're going to do this right. Come on, Ellie. Our window could close at any moment."

OoOoOoOoO

While Casey was telling Chuck the story of the love he'd lost, they moved out of the break room and headed for two recliners in front of the wall of TVs.

As they walked, Chuck stole a moment to contact Sarah and let her know he had Casey with him—and, more importantly as far as Chuck was concerned, they were talking about Ilsa.

It was a good thing he had already written an automated script to bring down Casey's systems and restore them when Sarah finished her sweep of the NSA agent's apartment. Chuck just prayed she didn't find anything that made their current situation worse—if that was even possible.

Casey sank into a chair. "Sure, it was great," he said, staring moodily at a commercial for Always maxi-pads, complete with a girl in a white dress twirling through a field of flowers. "We had what we had, but it's over."

Chuck hadn't thought the situation could get any weirder, but watching a commercial extolling the virtue of feminine products while chatting about Casey's love life might just top his bucket list of Most Bizarre Conversations. "So that's it?" he said, sitting down next to Casey and averting his eyes from the screen. "You're just gonna let her walk back out of your life?"

"Seems like the smart play, Chuck. Nice girls don't marry corrupt Russian oligarchs."

Seriously? It wasn't like Casey was anyone's idea of the perfect catch. What was he supposed to say when he came home for dinner? 'Be there in a minute, honey, just gotta wash the blood off my hands first?'

"Well, I hate to break it to you, but nice girls don't go around marrying guys like you, either," Chuck said, trying hard to suppress a grin.

Casey turned his head to look at Chuck, surprise clear on his face. "What are you getting at?"

"You think most girls dream of dating a G-man assassin or an international spy? I mean, pardon me for saying it, Casey, but at least on paper, you're kind of an unsavory dude."

"Granted," Casey said, cracking his knuckles. "But Ilsa never knew what I do for a living."

"That's exactly my point. What if Ilsa doesn't know what her fiancé Victor does for a living, either? If you care about her, don't you owe it to her to tell her the truth?"

Casey was silent for a long moment. Finally he said, "What are you suggesting I do?"

Ah, a pep talk. At last, they'd entered Chuck's wheelhouse. "Stick to your strengths, buddy," he said, wishing he had the courage to pat Casey on the shoulder in a gesture of solidarity. "Come on, you're a fighter. You gotta fight for her."

Chuck spent the next few minutes spelling out a daring romantic plan to get Casey to go find Ilsa at the Grand Seville and fight for his lost love. He knew it was a long shot that the NSA agent would agree to go along with something so risky—especially with Chuck tagging along—and was stunned when Casey got to his feet … albeit reluctantly.

Chuck could sense the hesitation in Casey's posture. Maybe the hard-nosed, badass Marine had never really put himself out there before. It was up to Chuck to make sure he didn't fail.

He wracked his brain to come up with words of encouragement that Casey would actually find meaningful. Only one thing came to mind. "Oorah."

Casey's head came up and his eyes fixed on Chuck with an expression that bordered on respect. Then he grunted—Number 91, I-almost-don't-hate-you with a side of Semper Fi—and led the way out the door.

OoOoOoOoO

Sarah and Ellie made their way around to Casey's back door. It wouldn't be good if Ellie's neighbors caught the both of them breaking and entering on one of their own. They didn't need any kind of run-in with local law enforcement. Echo Park was a tight-knit community, after all.

Kneeling down, Sarah pulled out her lock-picking tools and made short work of Casey's locks. Once inside, they cut through the kitchen to his living room. It was a good thing Sarah already knew where most of Casey's weapon caches were located. The tricky part would be finding all of his backups.

Walking over to the painting that hung by the front door, she felt for the button on the side of the frame. It revealed a lit hand scanner within the painting. She held her breath as she placed her hand on it, hoping that Casey hadn't been thorough enough to remove her access from his security systems yet. As it turned out, she was in luck: The wall panel slid open, and Ellie let out a gasp as she took in Casey's arsenal.

"Oh my God, Sarah." The doctor sounded appalled. "Who does this guy think he is—Rambo?"

Sarah tried to see Casey's stockpile of weapons through Ellie's eyes. After years of being Graham's pet enforcer, she was beyond jaded. Still, even she had to admit that Casey liked to err on the side of excess when it came to firepower. "Yeah, John's never been one to come to a fight outgunned," she said, reaching for the closest rifle and pulling it out of the hidden compartment. "That's the biggest reason we're doing this, Ellie. I need to level the playing field. In a one-on-one fight—should it come to that—I have to ensure he doesn't have the advantage."

She'd cleared out three more guns and a few boxes of ammo when she saw Ellie grab a lockbox hidden in the back corner of the compartment. On second glance, it didn't look like a normal lockbox. It had all the hallmarks of a carbonite, reinforced NSA strongbox, complete with thumb scanner. Whatever was in there, Casey didn't want just anyone to be able to get inside.

Before Sarah could warn her, Ellie placed her thumb on the scanner. Sarah held her breath … and was pleasantly surprised when the scanner just beeped with a stereotypical 'access denied' sound rather than exploding or something equally nefarious. When they weren't in the middle of a crisis, she'd have to give Ellie some basic tips on how to behave in the vicinity of firearms, bombs, and mysterious boxes hidden in the secret compartments of NSA assassins. In the meantime, she was just relieved Ellie's hand—and the rest of her—was still in one piece.

"Let me have that," she said, trying to keep her voice level.

Her hand still worked on the hand scanner; maybe there was a chance her thumb would work on the thumb scanner too. Maybe not—but nothing ventured, nothing gained.

She placed her thumb on the scanner, not sure what to expect. Most likely the box was simply coded for Casey. Worst-case scenario, it rejected her the way it had Ellie and they'd be in the same spot they were now. And best-case scenario—

The top of the box clicked open, and Sarah sucked in a breath, her heart pounding. Why would Casey give her access to a highly personalized device like this?

What was inside would change everything. She knew it the way she knew the things that mattered most to her, the axis around which her universe spun: Chuck was a kind, good man; she was irrevocably in love with him; she would do anything to keep him and his family safe.

She cleared her throat, motioning to the couch. "Let's see what's inside."

Gingerly, she set the box on Casey's coffee table. When she peered inside, a lump formed in her throat. There were complete sets of new IDs, passports, credit cards and extended legacies for a Charles and Sara Sanders. They all had Chuck and Sarah's images on them and were as legit as any Sarah had ever seen. Documents like this couldn't have been easy to get, or cheap.

Digging deeper, she found detailed escape routes, safe house locations, and emergency contact numbers. Finally, she unearthed what looked to be about $50,000 in cash and a thumb drive.

Wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, Sarah grabbed the drive, put everything back in the box, and sealed it. Piece by piece, she refilled the secret compartment with guns, ammo, and the box itself. She slid it closed and stepped away.

"Come on, Ellie," she said at last. "Let's get the hell out of here."

Ellie had been silent the whole time Sarah sorted through the contents of the box, but Sarah knew she didn't miss much—or anything, really. She came to stand beside Sarah, looking at the painting, now devoid of any indication of its dual nature ... much like Casey himself. She would never have thought that behind the NSA agent's indifferent-bordering-on-hostile surface lurked a man who was capable of compiling the contents of that box—contents that went well beyond defying his orders.

"What's going on?" Ellie said, eyebrows knitted. "I don't understand. I thought we came here to disarm Casey. That that was crucial to making sure we kept Chuck safe. Now here you are, putting everything back again. I know it's because of what was in that box, but I just … I don't get it. Why would Casey put all that stuff together for you and Chuck? Is he looking out for you guys, the way Chuck said yesterday? Do you think he meant for you to find it? Or do you—"

Sarah raised a hand, silencing her. "I'll tell you everything once I've had a chance to see what's on here." She held up the thumb drive. "Let's just say, it looks like Chuck was right about Casey. I don't even know why I'm surprised anymore. It's like he can read people's emotions. He's the most empathetic person I've ever met."

A tender smile lit Ellie's face. "He's always been that way—as long as I've known him ... Good for you, Sarah."

She left it at that.

Blushing, Sarah slipped the drive into her pocket. As they walked over to where Sarah had parked her car, she thought about how Chuck had seen beneath her own opaque surface, past her insecurities, to the person even she herself wasn't sure existed. He'd seen the best in her—and, almost like magic, she'd become the ideal version of herself she saw in his eyes. His love had changed her, true—but in the best possible way, transforming her into a version of herself she'd never imagined sharing with the world. It had terrified her to even think of letting the vulnerable, caring version of herself out—she'd been afraid the world would laugh at her, right before it kicked her teeth in. But with Chuck, everything was different. She was safe with him. She would risk everything.

She was the trained assassin, but he was the one who made her braver. Better. He gave her courage she never dreamed she'd find.

When they got to Sarah's car, she thanked Ellie and gave her a goodbye kiss on the cheek, telling her she'd contact her as soon as she could to fill her in. Sinking down in the driver's seat, she sent Chuck a message.

_You were right about Casey. He_ is_ looking out for you—for both of us actually. I'll tell you all about it once we're face to face, later tonight. I'll be at my apartment. For now, just know you're safe. I still have a few things to check out, but you can go ahead and bring Casey's security and_ _surveillance back online. Thank you for being who you are, Chuck. I love you so much.  
_

OoOoOoOoO

Chuck glanced at his phone and saw Sarah's message as he and Casey walked into the Grand Seville. Relief coursed through him. Sarah was safe and, it would appear, he was too. Not to mention, he'd been right about Casey's intentions.

He stole a sideways glance at the NSA agent, who was stone-faced as usual. Ilsa might be Casey's weak spot—but so, apparently, was Chuck. It made him feel good to know that his instincts were solid … and that he wasn't marching into the Grand Seville to salvage the love life of a man who was plotting his imminent demise.

While Casey scanned the room, he stole a moment to text Sarah back. _I'm so glad to hear that! And just in case you forgot … I love you too.  
_

Having the freedom to type those words felt amazing. He couldn't wait to say them to her again in person—and to do a few other things with her in person, too. God, her mouth was so amazing.

"What's on your mind, moron?" Casey was peering at him, eyes narrowed. "You look … weirder than usual."

_Shit. _The last thing he needed right now was to be distracted by thinking about Sarah. With his luck, the thoughts that were rattling around in his mind would somehow make it out of his mouth, and then they'd all be screwed. "Nothing," he said, pocketing his phone.

"Uh huh." The NSA agent sounded unconvinced.

He and Casey rode the elevator to Ilsa's floor in uncomfortable silence. The doors opened, and Chuck stepped out. Casey, however, didn't move.

"This is a terrible idea," he said, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. "We shouldn't be here. Can't we just—?"

"Negatory." Overcoming his natural reticence to lay hands on Mr. Touch Me and Die, Chuck reached into the elevator and dragged Casey out. "We've passed the point of no return. No retreat, soldier."

Chuck made his way down the hall, for once in the lead. Casey followed, complaining the whole way. "But this isn't a mission, Chuck. We're just two guys sneaking down a hall like a couple of numbnuts."

"First of all, we're not _sneaking_. And second of all, I resent the categorization—"

Chuck broke off as the door next to them opened and Zondra came out of the room, pushing a rolling cart. Her mouth fell open and she glared at them, wild-eyed.

"Hey," Casey offered in a thoroughly inadequate defense.

"What the hell are you two doing here?" Zondra said, her voice little more than a growl. "You know you can't be here, Casey. Your cover was blown, remember? And you brought Chuck with you too?"

For once, the NSA agent sounded embarrassed. "I'd like to apologize, Agent Rizzo. Chuck, here, convinced me …"

His voice trailed off, and Chuck stepped in, desperately trying to devise an excuse that she'd buy. "I convinced him to come, to come down to the hotel—and to bring me—because maybe I could flash on some stuff, some cool stuff or things or whatever." Christ, why did he always have to stammer when he was nervous?

She raised a skeptical eyebrow. "You talked Casey into letting you come to an all-night stakeout, willingly?"

"Doesn't sound like me, does it?" He offered her his best hapless-nerd smile. "I know. But I couldn't sleep, so I thought it would do me some good to, to, to, you know, look at some surveillance monitors or something. Maybe knock me right out, so—"

Surrendering, Zondra sighed. "All right. Follow me. You both need to stay out of sight anyway."

She wheeled her cart around and walked back into the room. Obviously, this was her base of operation. She'd set up a few monitors with feeds from the hotel's security cameras. Two chairs were pulled in front of the monitors—maybe she'd been expecting company?

"As you can see," Zondra said briskly, "I've already tapped into the hotel security feed. You two get comfy. I'm gonna deliver this to the Bridal Suite." Lifting the top of the serving dish, she showed Casey a hidden listening device.

"Good bug," Casey said, his voice neutral.

"With any luck, we'll get enough dirt off of this to nail that son of a bitch." She put the cover back in place, her mouth set with determination. "We need to take Victor and his cronies down on U.S. soil. Here, one of you grab the door."

Chuck held it open for her as she backed out of the room with the cart. She smiled sweetly up at him. "Keep him safe, Casey," she said, her eyes still on Chuck's face.

What exactly was going on here? Was she flirting with Chuck out of habit, or just to get under his skin after he'd told her in no uncertain terms that they'd only be friends? Either way, it made Chuck uneasy. He knew Sarah would be pissed—and rightfully so.

"Don't wait up," Chuck said, letting the door slip shut. "Just gonna be looking at, ah, ahem, monitors and—"

She winked at him just before the door closed, cutting him off mid-ramble. "Ugh," Chuck muttered, walking over to the monitors. Could he not have a moment of peace? He liked Zondra. She was badass and funny and, yes, beautiful—but she couldn't hold a candle to Sarah. No one could. Maybe she'd come to think of Chuck as some kind of challenge—the nerd who didn't fall swooning at the gorgeous CIA agent's feet. That would be just his crappy luck.

Well, he could focus on that problem later. Right now, he had work to do. He grabbed the keyboard and started flipping through the camera feeds from the hotel, panning each one, sweeping the hotel for Ilsa. When he called up the bar's feed, Chuck paused. He'd spotted their target. She was dead center.

"Um, Casey?" he said, pointing at the monitor.

The NSA agent was sitting in the other chair, staring at the forest-green carpet between his feet as if he'd rather be anywhere than here. "What, you flash?"

"No. Look who's hitting the bar the night before her own wedding." He gestured at Ilsa, who, like Casey, wore an expression that hovered somewhere between resignation and misery. "Now, does that look like the face of a woman who's happy about getting married?"

Ilsa took her drink and settled into a booth, staring moodily into the depths of her glass. It was the perfect opportunity. "This is your chance, buddy. This is your chance," Chuck said, nudging the leg of Casey's chair. "Look at her, Casey. She's just sitting there waiting for you."

The NSA agent didn't say a word, and when Chuck looked over at him, he realized why. "Wait a second. You're scared, aren't you?"

"Don't be an idiot," Casey said, folding his arms across his chest.

"Kemosabe, come on, man." He squeezed Casey's shoulder. "Look—you don't wanna spend the rest of your life hating yourself for what you didn't have the guts to say tonight. Okay? Believe me, I know."

Casey just grunted, and Chuck sucked in a breath, gearing up for another pep talk. But before he could utter a word, Casey stood, brushed back his hair, and walked out the door with his head held high.

OoOoOoOoO

As Zondra wheeled her cart down the hall on Victor's floor, she noticed a man standing guard outside his room. When she got closer, she saw the brace on his hand and realized he was the same sleazy Russian who'd grabbed her ass last night. Before she could backtrack fast enough, he spotted her. She bent down, pretending to look for something on the tray. It was a crappy ploy, but she needed to buy some time.

"Hey, this is a private floor," he said, sounding annoyed.

When she lifted her head, his eyes grew wide with recognition and fear. He reached for his walkie-talkie, about to call for help. She had to act fast. Lunging, she grabbed his injured hand again, twisting it behind him, and then knocked him out with the top of the serving dish.

Great. Now she had a body to hide. Maybe it was actually a good thing Casey was here.

"Casey, I'm gonna need your help on this one," she said into her watch. "I need you to deliver the package. Key's in the sugar."

She slipped the key card into the sugar bowl and waited for his response, but it never came. What the hell was going on? She would kill Casey if anything happened to Chuck. Why had she agreed to let him stay anyway? Never again.

"Casey?" she said again. "Casey, do you read me?"

She heard the mic click as someone cleared their throat. "Um, ahem. Yeah, uh, copy that. On my way."

Casey didn't sound like himself. Maybe this whole Ilsa thing was really getting to him.

At least Chuck was still safe. She'd be having a little chat with him once this was all over.

Zondra grabbed the Russian prick under his arms, dragging him down the hallway.

OoOoOoOoO

Chuck was still dressed in his Nerd Herd outfit. Not quite a waiter's uniform, but it would have to do. He tucked in his shirttails and made his way down to Victor's floor, where Zondra had left the rolling cart. After he grabbed the key card from the sugar, he rolled the cart to the door and knocked tentatively.

"Bonsoir, madam," he said, having decided for some absurd reason that a French accent was suitable for the occasion. "Housekeeping," he tried again when no one responded—this time in an accent that belonged to no language he'd ever heard. For the love of God, he was a terrible spy.

He entered the room, babbling in broken English. Luckily, there was no one there. Wiping a sheen of sweat from his forehead, Chuck took the bug from underneath the serving dish and scanned the room for a place to plant it.

"Okay," he muttered, glancing around. "Eeny, meeny, miny … moe."

Spotting a lamp mounted to the wall beside the bed, he walked over and started to place the bug on the front of its base—until he realized that was a terrible idea. He might as well hang a sign over the bed that read, 'Hello, we have come to spy on you. Feel free to go about your business.'

"Why would I put it in front? What am I, an idiot?" He reclaimed the bug and continued scanning the room. Maybe beneath the desk—

He walked closer to the desk, trying to get a better view. A briefcase sat on top, and Chuck couldn't resist—he needed to know what was inside.

The briefcase had a side panel that popped open. He leaned down, saw Ilsa's dossier—and flashed. Holy crap. She was a secret service agent. A French spy.

As Chuck struggled to digest this information, he heard muffled voices right outside the door. Someone was about to come into the room. Panicked, he dove under the bed.

"These stupid keys never work," a woman's voice said as the door swung open. From Chuck's vantage point, all he could see were feet—four of them. Two were clad in heels so high, it was a wonder their owner didn't fall over. And the others were wearing some very familiar steel-toed black shoes—the better to kick Chuck's ass with, when their possessor realized he was eavesdropping on an intimate moment.

"Mm," Casey said, and there was a thud as he lay down on the bed, pulling his companion with him. "Oh, Ilsa."

_Seriously? _Casey would never forgive him for this—but there was no escape. Was he really going to have to lie underneath the bed while Casey and Ilsa did the nasty?

"Oh, my God," Ilsa said as the bedsprings squeaked. "Oh, Casey."

"Oh, I missed you," Casey said, sounding distinctly un-Caseylike.

"I've missed you too." The bedsprings squeaked again and the mattress dipped, nearly crushing Chuck. Above him, Casey made a sound that Chuck could happily have gone his whole life without hearing.

"You haven't lost your magic touch," the NSA agent said, which conjured all sorts of images that Chuck tried and failed to scrub from his mind's eye. Closing his eyes, he prayed for deliverance—or a magic power that would allow him to disappear. Failing that, a nice tub of brain bleach would do the trick.

Alas, no such luck. The torture continued.

"Oh, Casey." Ilsa's voice was husky. "Again."

With each passing moment, Chuck became increasingly mortified. How was this happening? Was it possible they were sufficiently distracted that he'd be able to crawl away without them noticing?

Who was he kidding? They were both spies. They'd probably notice mid-coitus if he so much as breathed too loudly.

Just as he'd resolved to keep airflow to a minimum, his phone rang, blaring the ridiculously loud Mexican hat dance song. Sarah was calling. He snatched the phone from his pocket to silence it, but it was too late. Casey had already bent down on one knee, looking under the bed.

"Bartowski," the NSA agent said, ice in his voice. "What the hell are you doing here?"

Chuck crawled out from under the bed and got to his knees too. They were eye to eye. "Listen, I'm really sorry," he whispered. "I know this is very awkward, but Ilsa is a bad girl. She's a very bad girl."

As the words left Chuck's lips, Casey reached for his gun, but Ilsa had already pointed hers at his head.

"Drop the gun, Sugar Bear," she said.

Suddenly, the absurd nickname no longer seemed as cutesy as it had before. "See?" Chuck said, shrugging.

Casey turned his head to look at Ilsa. "Mind telling me what a nice girl like you is doing with a gun?"

She offered him a Mona Lisa smile. "Same thing as you, Casey."

"I tried to warn you," Chuck said. "She's a spy."

"Who do you work for?" Casey said, as calmly as if Ilsa didn't have a gun aimed at his forehead.

Ilsa's eyes flicked to Chuck. "Why don't you ask your friend? He's already seen my files."

There was no point in pretending he didn't know the truth. "Uh, yeah, I did. She's French secret service," Chuck said, wishing he wasn't the one who had to convey this information to Casey. "But wouldn't that put us all on the same side, kind of?"

"You lied to me," Casey said. His voice was empty, but Chuck had known him long enough to know what that meant—the NSA agent was hiding a wealth of feeling behind his impassive mask.

"Says the energy consultant," Ilsa retorted.

Casey straightened, staring her down. "What about the bomb in Grozny, that 'I never forgot your face' garbage?"

She adjusted her grip on the weapon. "Oh, that bomb."

The tension in the room ratcheted up to untenable proportions. Chuck could feel the waves of betrayal and hurt rolling off Casey, and he could only imagine they'd alchemize into violence. He was seriously considering making a run for his life when the door banged open once again.

"Ilsa," Victor Federov called, stepping through.

Ilsa's eyes widened and she held her gun up in surrender. "Quick. Hide," she said, looking from Casey to Chuck and back again. "You have to trust me."

Well, there was a dicey proposition if Chuck had ever heard one—but what choice did they have? He slid back under the box spring, and Casey followed. Now they were both trapped, like bit players in a stupid sitcom … except the consequences were likely to be deadly rather than amusing.

"Ilsa? Ilsa," Victor sang, sounding more than a little plastered.

She flung herself back down on the bed, almost crushing Chuck's nose. "Baby," she said in a come-hither voice. Next to Chuck, Casey vibrated with rage.

Victor's voice came closer. "Where have you been hiding, Ilsa?"

"Right here," she cooed. Casey glared up at the box spring with such force of will, Chuck wouldn't have been surprised if Ilsa could feel his wrath emanating through the mattress.

"I can't wait any longer," Victor slurred. "How about we start our honeymoon now?"

The mattress gave way once again as Victor climbed onto it, this time almost flattening Casey. The NSA agent's fist clenched, as if he was barely restraining himself from punching his way through the bed.

"Oh, Victor. Oh, Victor," Ilsa moaned, giving an excellent impression of a woman in the throes of passion.

"Oh, Ilsa," Victor mumbled as the box spring began to squeak.

At this, Casey's control finally snapped. He pointed his gun at the underside of the bed, preparing to fire. Chuck wasn't sure who the NSA agent wanted to kill—Victor, for being a general asshat, international criminal, and drunken douchebag who was trying to have sex with the woman Casey loved … or Ilsa, for lying to him and going along with the absurd situation in which they currently found themselves. Either way, the outcome was bound to suck.

Chuck grabbed Casey's hand, vigorously shaking his head. "Don't even think about it. You don't know who's on top."

The NSA agent's head turned and he gave Chuck a vicious look—but lowered the gun. Chuck breathed a sigh of relief, just as loud, rhythmic snores began to emanate from the bed above them. Thank God—Victor must have passed out.

Ilsa leaned over the bed to peek under it at Casey and Chuck. "You guys get out of here before he wakes up," she whispered.

Without a word, Casey extricated himself, brushed off his clothes, and stalked out. Chuck followed, guilt roiling in his stomach. He'd just wanted to help—but he'd made things worse. Now Casey would never trust him again.

OoOoOoOoO

Staring out her bedroom window, fiddling with the thumb drive in her pocket, Sarah thought about what it meant that Casey was willing to go against his orders with such reckless abandon. It would be considered treason if he was caught. They wouldn't just toss his ass in a cell and throw away the key, they'd toss him in a grave and throw away the shovel.

Never had she had a partner, or friend for that matter, put their neck on the line for her like that. She was gobsmacked by his actions and felt awful for not seeing through the tough NSA agent's façade to recognize the true friend she had in John Casey.

Hell, if it wasn't for him, she could have lost Chuck forever. Casey had to have known what he was doing when he emailed her the video of Chuck and Ellie talking at Thanksgiving. Only when Sarah heard Chuck's declaration of love had she found the courage to drop her walls and confess her own feelings. Where would they be right now if Casey had kept his nose out of it? It wasn't his style to get involved with people's personal lives. What the hell was he getting out of it?

Then it hit her … Casey didn't see her and Chuck as merely his colleagues or partners or even a temporary assignment. He _was_ an old-school Marine, after all. He saw them as a fellow brother and sister in arms. They were both family to him now. He wouldn't leave either one of them behind. He'd always have their backs and never betray them. That, she was sure of. It was at the core of who he was. Always faithful—Semper Fidelis.

The more she thought about it, the more sense it made. They were all orphans of sorts. Left out in the wilderness to fend for themselves. All abandoned or betrayed by those they'd loved. Chuck was the glorification of that concept, and she and Casey were both drawn to him because of it.

No matter how ashamed she was, she needed to tell Casey why she was here and what she'd done, and beg for his forgiveness. It was the right thing to do. She owed him her repentance.

Sarah still hadn't looked at the contents of the drive. It was burning a hole in her pocket, but she needed to wait for Chuck, to share the implications of their friend's intended sacrifice for them. Chuck was the one that'd remained true to Casey, after all. He deserved to see what was on the drive more than she did.

While she was lost in thought, a soft knock sounded at her door.

It had to be Chuck.

Flinging the door open—talk about reckless abandon!—she dragged Chuck into her apartment and pinned him against the wall, kissing him desperately. She couldn't get enough and by the way he instantly responded, neither could he. God, his mouth was so amazing … and what he was doing with his—

Chuck paused and pulled back, cupping her cheeks in his hands. His expression was both impassioned and apologetic. She'd never known someone with such expressive eyes. "Sorry I didn't call you back, I was uh, I was held up. I came as soon as I could."

"Held up? Did something happen?"

He dropped his hands and averted his eyes. This couldn't be good. "I screwed up, Sarah," he said, "and now Casey's bound to hate me."

Shuffling over to her bed, he sat down dejectedly with his elbows on his knees and ran his hands through his curls. Sarah sat beside him and waited. She knew he was just getting started.

"Sarah, it was a disaster. Somehow I convinced Casey to go to the hotel and fight for Ilsa. I can't believe he listened to me. But he did—and then everything went to hell."

In what, for Chuck, was a remarkably succinct manner, he described everything that had transpired at the Grand Seville that night. By the time he finished, Sarah was fuming. She stood and started to pace.

"Why would you volunteer to plant that bug?" she said, rounding on Chuck with her hands on her hips. "I can't believe you thought you could impersonate an NSA agent. Did you not promise to call me if there was the slightest hint of danger? You could have been killed!"

Chuck's head came up and he met her eyes. "Look, Sarah, I know it was stupid. I just wanted Casey to have a chance to find Ilsa and talk to her. I wanted him to be happy, like we are."

"Like we _were_," she said, "before you broke a promise to me and wound up trapped under a bed with a homicidal ex-Marine, beneath a French secret service agent and a member of the Russian mob!"

"Well, when you put it that way," he said, looking up at her, "it does sound bad."

"You think?" Her voice squeaked.

He reached out and took her hand. "I know I screwed up, but please don't be mad, Sarah. I thought I could handle it. And it was making me crazy to see Casey so miserable. I just wanted to help."

Sighing, she sank down on the bed next to him. "I know you did, Chuck. You want to help everyone. It's part of what I love about you. But this—I was right here, and you didn't call me. And when I called you—if it hadn't been Casey on top of that bed, if it had been Victor and Ilsa, what do you think would have happened?"

He opened his mouth to reply, but she wasn't finished. "I have to leave tomorrow night, Chuck. If I can't protect you when I'm just a few miles away—if I can't trust you to make decisions that will keep you safe—then how am I supposed to deal with going back to San Francisco? What if something happens to you? It would break me."

Chuck wrapped his arms around her, holding her close. "I'm so sorry, Sarah. I really am. I didn't mean to scare or worry you and I promise to let the trained agents handle that kind of thing from now on, okay?"

She let herself relax, breathing in his scent—the cologne he always wore, undergirded with a hint of sweat. "While you were busy trying to rewrite Casey's doomed love life, your sister and I made a few discoveries of our own."

"So you said." He sat back, leaning against the pillows. "I'm almost afraid to ask. What did you find?"

Now it was Sarah's turn to summarize. She scooted up next to him, wanting to assure herself that he was really safe, and he stroked her hair. "Go on," he said.

Sarah took a deep breath. "We were cleaning out one of his weapons caches, and Ellie found a box. It was coded to my thumbprint. Inside was everything you and I would need to make a clean break if something happened. Passports, IDs, escape routes, money—Casey thought of everything. He made us an escape hatch, Chuck. I couldn't believe it."

A smile lit Chuck's face. "I told you I sensed something different about him. He wants us to be happy—and together. Inside that robotic exterior beats the heart of a true romantic."

"There's more." She fished in her pocket and held up the thumb drive. "This was in the box, too—but I wanted to wait for you so that we could look at it together."

"Well, here I am. Where's your laptop?" He stood up, glancing around the room until his eyes fell on her computer, stashed in its bag beneath the table. "Here," he said, extricating it. "Whatever's on that drive, I have a feeling it's gonna be good. Let's take a look."

Chuck placed a few extra pillows against the headboard and lay back, trying to get comfortable. Crossing his legs, he hit the power button. Somehow, he managed to bypass her username and password and had her desktop up in seconds. She looked at him in awe and tried to hand him the thumb drive. Instead of taking it, he opened up a black window, shaking his head … his fingers flew. She could hardly read what was on the screen—it was moving too fast. She'd never seen anything like it.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

"Making sure your computer's air-gapped before we plug that thing in. I need to make sure the NICs are offline and disabled. The NSA, especially, has bots crawling the net, sniffing out the contents of everyone's hard drive. Whatever's on there," he gave her his sternest look, "it's for our eyes only."

"You know I have no idea what you're talking about, right?" Despite the gravity of the situation, she couldn't resist brushing a wayward curl out of his eyes. She let her fingers linger for a moment, warm against his skin. "But go ahead and talk nerdy to me some more. It's sexy."

He rolled his eyes. "Sure it is. Anyway, we're clear now. Let's watch."

Chuck inserted the USB drive and Casey's face appeared on the screen. "Walker, Bartowski," the NSA agent said in his usual clipped manner. "If you're watching this, things have gone pear-shaped. Not that I'm surprised. This assignment was fucked from the beginning. Encrypted on this drive, you'll find everything you need to fight back." His eyes flicked to the right, as if he could see Chuck watching. "Bartowski … the key is your favorite superhero, plus Dutch's birthday. Any Roman could get it. If this isn't you guys watching, then you can go fuck yourselves. I didn't sign up for this shit."

Chuck and Sarah watched as Casey reached over and stopped the recording. A prompt appeared, asking for a password.

Sarah looked over at Chuck. His forehead was furrowed and the tip of his tongue stuck out, the way it did when he was concentrating. Glancing up at the ceiling, he smiled and began to type.

A file system appeared showing four file folders, numbered accordingly.

"Wait," Sarah said, putting her hand on Chuck's arm. "What was the password?"

Chuck looked as shy as she'd ever seen him. He cleared his throat to answer. "Well, Dutch was Ronald Reagan's nickname. It's Casey we're talking about here, right? Reagan's birthday in Roman numerals is II-VI-MCMXI."

"Of course it is," Sarah muttered. "And your favorite superhero?"

He looked directly at her and shrugged. "Sarah Walker. Who else?"

Her eyes went wide and tears spilled down her cheeks. "I'm no one's hero, Chuck. How can you say that? I've taken so many lives—"

Chuck placed his palm on her chest, right over her heart. "I know who you are, Sarah. In here. Believe me when I tell you there's no one I admire more."

She opened her mouth to object, but he leaned forward before she could say a word and kissed her. She wound her fingers into his curls, holding him close. When he pulled back, his cheeks were wet with her tears.

"Hold that thought," he said, putting his arm around her shoulders and snuggling her against him. "Let's see what Casey considers ammunition."

He clicked on the first folder, opening one document at a time. Each contained detailed records showing that earlier in Beckman's career, she'd framed a subordinate for a crime he didn't commit. She'd suspected him of being a whistleblower within her ranks. He must have seen enough to cause her worry, because she'd had him sidelined—at least while she shuffled the deck—and redirected everyone's attention towards the accuser, not the perpetrator.

Sarah had to respect the con-artist ploy involved. It disgusted her, but impressed her nonetheless. She glanced over at Chuck again. No reaction. He actually looked disappointed.

Chuck clicked on the second folder. It contained voice recordings and digital confirmation showing that before Beckman was promoted to Brigadier General, she'd dug up dirt on a few of the military promotion board members and blackmailed them to vote a certain way in regards to her appointment.

Okay, that one had teeth. Surely Chuck would see the implications. Nope … not a thing. He just clicked on the third folder and moved on.

Inside was a road map of leaked intelligence from Beckman's office, showing how she'd set up a rival for head of the NSA directorship to be assassinated by an Iranian operative. The file contained email transcripts, phone logs, and even a recording of Beckman's call to the freelance assassin hired to take out the target, supporting the claim that she'd orchestrated the whole thing.

This time Chuck looked intrigued. He highlighted a few passages and renamed a few files, but that was it.

Finally, he clicked on the last folder. The first file was a recording Chuck already had of Beckman ordering Casey to terminate him when the new Intersect went live. He looked over at Sarah, took a deep breath, and clicked on the next file, named "The Great Hunter."

When it opened, he flashed … hard.

This flash looked more intense than normal. More _in-depth_, if she had to pin a word on it. His eyes fluttered all over the place and she could see it was taking a toll on his body, too.

"Sarah," he gasped when he came out of it. "Oh my God."

She brushed his hair back from his face. He was sweating, his curls matted. "What is it, Chuck? What did you see?"

Grasping her hands in his, he struggled to center himself. "Did you know Casey used to be a colonel? That is, 'til Beckman demoted him to major for failing to successfully carry out a termination order on a computer scientist, code-named Orion. They 'just disappeared,' according to Casey's final report. There's not much else about him or her in here," he said, freeing one hand to tap his temple, "but Sarah … whoever they are, they created the Intersect." He gripped her fingers, hard enough to hurt. "Do you realize this is the first time since the Zarnow mission we've found someone that might be able to help me remove this cursed thing from my head? If they could put it in, they could get it out, right?"

"Potentially," she said, wiggling her trapped fingers. He gave her an apologetic glance and loosened his grip. "But I think you may be missing the big picture here, Chuck. We've got Beckman's balls in a sling with this one. Yes, there's still Graham to contend with, but Chuck, our leverage just doubled."

"All I care about is you." He pressed a kiss to her forehead, and she pulled back, looking up into his face. "I'm crazy about you, Sarah. I've always been. Now, I'm even more determined to live the life that I want with the girl that I love, because I'm not gonna let this thing"—he pointed at his temple again—"rob me of that. The Intersect brought you to me … for that, I'm thankful. But it's worn out its welcome. I just want to live a normal life with you—whatever 'normal' looks like for us—and I have a feeling Casey might've just handed us the key."

"I don't know what a normal life looks like." Her voice was husky. "But I want it too, Chuck—for us to be together. It's more than I ever dreamed I'd have."

She kissed him, and that was all it took—the spark that always simmered between them burst into flame. The next thing she knew, her clothes were mingled with his on the floor and his lips were tracing their way down her body. Closing her eyes, she arched into the warmth of his mouth and surrendered.

Afterward, they lay side by side, the way they had the night before. Sarah felt sated—but also comforted, as if she was exactly where she needed to be. "I hate that I need to leave," she said into the silence. "I wish I could just stay here, with you."

He propped himself up on his elbows. "I hate that I need to leave, too. I can stay for a little bit longer, but not like last night. I have a feeling Zondra's keeping a closer eye on me."

Tugging the covers up to her waist, she turned to look at him. "What do you mean?"

"Uh, well—" He scrubbed a hand over his face. "I hate to bring this up right now—it seems like the height of bad taste—but she keeps flirting with me, Sarah. I swear I haven't done anything to lead her on. I've tried to discourage her again and again. But she just won't stop. Maybe if I could be honest with her about what's going on between you and me—"

"You can't. She'd go right to Graham." The words came out harsher than she'd intended, and she sucked in air, trying to steady herself. "I know she's flirting with you, Chuck. I saw her at the Buy More, the day I came back. At first I thought it was just Zondra being Zondra—trying to play up her assets for the asset, if you know what I mean—but I watched her. It's more than that. I think she genuinely likes you."

Chuck's face fell. "Come on, Sarah, that's ridiculous. What could she possibly see in me?"

"What do _I _see in you? You're brilliant and talented and adorable and resourceful. Ugh." She drove a fist into the mattress. "It's not like I think I own you, Chuck. But it kills me to think about going back to San Francisco while she's here trying to get her hooks into you."

"You have nothing to worry about." His voice was soft. "Just like I know I have nothing to worry about with Bryce—right?"

"Of course not." She sat up, indignant. "I told him how I felt about you."

"Well, I'd be happy to tell Zondra how I feel about you, if you'd let me. But since you won't—" He got to his feet, still naked, and started rummaging in his satchel.

Sarah couldn't help it—she giggled. "What the hell are you doing?"

"I actually, um. I have something for you. For Christmas." He found whatever it was and turned, the item concealed in his fist. "I was going to give it to you tomorrow, but considering you're leaving then, I kind of wanna give it to you now."

She blushed as he came back to bed. "Chuck, you didn't have to get me anything."

He crawled back on the bed and opened his hand, revealing a gorgeous piece of silver jewelry, and her breath left her. Her fingers trembled as he closed the clasp around her wrist. "There," he said, looking satisfied.

Sarah stared down at the bracelet. It was delicate, with filigreed links and tiny, exquisitely-crafted charms. "Wow," she said, at a loss for words. "That's beautiful."

"It's good luck," Chuck said, running his thumb over the back of her hand. "It was my mom's charm bracelet. My dad gave it to her when Ellie was born."

Suddenly, the gift took on a whole new meaning. "Oh, Chuck, I can't take this. This is an heirloom. It's something that should stay with your family."

"I know." He raised an eyebrow at her, a smirk spreading across his face. "That's the plan."

* * *

As always, we want to know what you think! Please leave a review.


	10. Rivals and Friends

Chapter Ten … in which Chuck keeps his promise, Sarah makes amends, Zondra confesses the unexpected, and Casey surprises everyone.

This chapter completes the Undercover Lover arc. It's lengthier than we intended because of the AU changes to the storyline—but we think our additions will pay off in the long run!

Disclaimer: We don't own Chuck…

* * *

**Chapter 10: Rivals and Friends**

Casey stretched out on the couch in the Buy More's home theatre room, mindlessly not watching a black-and-white Bogart movie. He'd only a vague idea of what the plot might be. What he _did_ know was that he was totally and completely screwed—or not, given the way things had ended up last night. He scowled, remembering Ilsa's passionate moans reverberating through the box springs of the 'engaged' couple's bed.

Why the hell had he agreed to go along with the moron's idiotic plan? Thinking back, he could only guess.

Bartowski was such a hopeless romantic and he tended to rub off on you in unexpected ways—like a deadly fungus or flesh-eating bacteria you picked up in some God-forsaken jungle. Sure, his situation was similar to Casey's in certain respects, but the differences were night and day.

It was the kid who'd found his true love in Walker, and she'd be back—Casey was sure of it. The Larkin slip-up was just a stupid blip on her radar and Casey was a spy. They couldn't fool him. Bartowski was easy to pin down. He was just one of those people that was easy to lov—like. An open book who foolishly wore his heart on his sleeve. He had no chance hiding how he felt. It was so obvious he'd been pining away for the CIA skirt since the first time he laid eyes on her. But Casey had also seen the same thing in Walker's eyes every time she looked at the geek. She was even more of a goner than the moron was. It was one of the biggest reasons Casey had taken such drastic measures to help them out after he'd received his 'orders' from Beckman. With Walker's dreadful past and Bartowski's dismal future, they both deserved a long and happy life together—no matter how unlikely the odds—and Casey was adamant his friends would get that chance.

But that didn't mean he'd find that for himself, did it? It had never been his M.O. before meeting Ilsa. He'd always thought happily-ever-after had never been in the cards—that is, until Bartowski had somehow convinced him he could have it too.

He was an idiot for believing what he and Ilsa had had was real—or ever could be. They were both spies, for crying out loud.

But so was Walker. Wasn't she proof that people could change?

Goddamn it, Bartowski. Why the hell couldn't he have left well enough alone? Why did he always need to go on and on about his damn lady feelings? Casey slammed his fist down on the couch, dislodging some loose change.

As if his thoughts had summoned him, Chuck walked through the door, pausing when he saw the expression on Casey's face. "Hey, Casey, we need to talk."

He and Chuck needed to do a lot of things. Talking was not among them. "Is it related to last night?" Casey said, holding the bridge of his nose.

"Uh, well, yeah," Bartowski said, sounding sheepish.

Easy fix. "Then I don't wanna talk about it."

"Listen, Casey—" the stubborn idiot began.

Enough was enough. "No, you listen," Casey said, getting up from the couch and grabbing Chuck by the shirtfront. "Whatever you thought existed between me and Ilsa, you were wrong. Right? That person's gone back to being dead to me. You have something to say, Chuck?"

The moron managed to look remarkably composed for someone who was on the verge of being massacred. Maybe Casey was losing his edge. "Yeah. Just that there's a dead lady waiting to see you."

Ilsa strolled into the home theatre room, looking as gorgeous as she had the day Casey met her. She was an addiction he couldn't kick, a drug he'd never stopped craving. It was ridiculous.

For the love of fucking God. All he wanted was some peace and quiet, with a little gunfire thrown in to keep things interesting. And what did he get? Lady feelings and drama.

Romance was for suckers. When he got home, he was shredding the contents of the box he'd put together for Chuck and Sarah. Either that, or he'd hand-deliver it to the two of them with the condition that they take their lovey-dovey asses to another continent, where he didn't have to watch them pretend not to look at each other. Not that Sarah was around for him to look at right now, but still—the concept remained.

He jerked his head at Chuck in a not-so-subtle signal to get out. As soon as the moron obeyed, he rounded on his ex. "How did you find me, Ilsa?"

She held up a bug—presumably the one Zondra had hidden under the top of the serving dish. "Your friend left this under the bed. He's not much of a spy."

Well, that went without saying. "So, what do you want?"

His tone could've frozen the warmest of hearts, but Ilsa didn't react to it. Instead, she gave him a pleading look—the look that had always brought him to his knees. "I didn't want to leave things the way we left them last night."

Just thinking about the ignominious position he and Chuck had found themselves in made Casey's blood boil all over again. "What? With you getting plowed by a drunk Russian crime boss? You should get used to that."

"We've been investigating Victor Federov since the Paris commuter train bombings back in '02," she said. "My agency's tried everything to take him to trial, but his organization is airtight. Totally legit from the outside. The only way we could take him down—"

"Was by screwing it out of him? How, uh, French. If you are French." Casey tried to pretend he didn't care, but it was a useless pursuit. He was too angry, and there was no point in hiding it.

"Casey, please." She reached out to touch his sleeve, but he jerked away.

"I make one call and you, Victor, and half the Grand Seville are packed on a plane, shipped off to the detention center of my choice." He spat the words at her.

"You're not going to do that," she said, sounding as calm as he was furious. He remembered that about her—how when they'd fight, the madder he'd get, the more reasonable she became. Of course, those fights usually ended in spectacular makeup sex. This one, he was certain, would not.

"Really? Why's that?" he said, taking a step back.

"That would be unprofessional. And that's not you." An expression of genuine sadness crossed her face, and for a moment he was looking at the woman he'd loved—the one he'd imagined might actually stick. "I wish things could be different. I'm sorry, Casey."

She reached up and unclasped the locket he'd given her in Grozny, handing it back to him. Numb, he took it. The pendant bit into his palm, warm from her skin.

"Goodbye," she said, her tone heavy with the weight of the things she wouldn't allow herself to say.

Casey wanted to stop her, to ask her questions. He wanted to know what the intervening years had held for her, if she'd ever really loved him, why she thought this path was the only way forward. But the words were a logjam in his throat—too close to begging—and in the end he did what he did best: Stayed silent as he watched her walk away.

OoOoOoOoO

If you'd asked Zondra just a few weeks ago if she had a romantic bone in her body, she would've laughed at the notion. If her life was a movie, it would've definitely played out more like an action flick than a rom-com. In fact, other than Johnny Federline—the sleepy-eyed football player she'd dated as a high school junior—and the crush she'd had at the Farm, she hadn't allowed herself to indulge in anything you could call a relationship. A little harmless flirting here and there, sure; a little lead-'em-on-and-leave-'em-crying in the name of a mission, yeah. But falling for someone, when you just wanted to be around them and watch them do the simplest of things—when you got a kick out of just saying their name—it had been a long time since she'd felt that way.

She sure felt it now, though, striding through the doors of the Buy More and watching the deft way Chuck handled a customer—a short guy wearing an aggressively floral Hawaiian shirt whose bad taste in clothing was rivaled only by the extremity of his comb-over. Chuck was just so good with people. The other guy's body language went from hunched and hostile to relaxed, and as Zondra came up to the counter, she even saw Mr. I Need a Personal Shopper smile.

"Seriously, thanks," the guy said. "I didn't think anyone could fix this, much less for free."

"Just part of the job," Chuck said, shrugging in that self-deprecating way he had.

"No sir, young man. You went above and beyond." Hawaiian Shirt lifted his iPhone up like it was Exhibit A. "It works better than it did before. Who's your manager? I wanna have a word."

Chuck actually flushed in embarrassment. Zondra watched the color heat his cheeks and thought she'd never seen anything more adorable in her life. "That's really not necessary—"

"I insist." Hawaiian Shirt waved the iPhone in the air. "I thought I'd lost years of pics. My wife. My kids. You know how it is. If you hadn't done whatever you did, I'd be totally screwed. Point out your manager, son. You deserve it."

Chuck mumbled something about Big Mike's office, and off the guy went, clutching his iPhone to his chest like Gollum's ring.

Zondra knew she didn't look like the type, but she had a secret penchant for fantasy movies like the Lord of the Rings series and shows like Firefly. In her opinion, the fact that the latter had gone off the air after a single season should've been a criminal offense. She never talked about her taste in flicks, though, because the people she usually spent time with would laugh their asses off. Reality was more than enough for them. But somehow, she thought Chuck would understand—and maybe even dig the same shows. She had a sudden vision of the two of them cuddled side by side on her couch, his arm around her shoulders, sharing a tub of popcorn as they watched The Hobbit, and felt a pang in her chest.

"Hey, there," Chuck said, giving her that beautiful, innocent smile of his. "You look like a woman on a mission. Let me guess … you've come to yell at me about last night, huh?"

She cocked an eyebrow.

"Look, I know I need to explain myself." He held up a finger, indicating for her to wait. Then he filed some paperwork and locked his computer, giving her his undivided attention. "But if it's Casey you want to yell at, you just missed him. Crawled out of here early like a kicked dog—if the dog in question had weaponized canines and an extraordinarily bad attitude."

She folded her arms across her chest, trying not to grin at him. The guy was hilarious—it was part of what made him so irresistible to her. "Okay, spill it, Chuck. What exactly happened last night?"

He groaned, glancing around to make sure no one was in earshot. "Essentially, I'm single-handedly responsible for Casey having his heart ripped out and stomped on by the woman he used to love. Not to mention, his ex-girlfriend turned out to be a French secret service agent, Victor's still an evil asshole, and for a four-star hotel, the underside of the Grande Seville's beds could really do with some vacuuming."

Zondra's eyes sprang wide. "I think," she said, taking a cleansing breath, "that you'd better tell me everything."

And so he did, with remarkable brevity. By the time he finished talking, she was horrified—and a little impressed at how ballsy he'd been. He really was an extraordinary man. First he'd gone out of his way to protect her during the Lon Kirk mission, and now here he was, going above and beyond to help out Casey in his time of need. He so deeply cared about all the people in his life and she felt lucky to be one of them.

"That was you on the comms, huh," she said, bracing her elbows on the Nerd Herd counter. "I thought Casey didn't sound like himself, but I was too busy dragging a—well, never mind. Just please promise me you won't do anything like that again. You may be a tech wiz, but you're not a trained agent. I can't let anything happen to you. You're too important."

"Yeah, yeah, I know," Chuck mumbled, tapping his temple and then raking his hand through his hair. "Popular opinion around these parts."

Casey must've given Chuck a piece of his mind after they escaped from under that box spring. Zondra could only imagine. She wasn't going to waste time scolding him any further—not when she had more important things on her mind. Everyone else might value him because his brain held the Intersect; but when Zondra looked at him, she saw so much more than an asset. "Listen, Chuck," she said, trying not to sound as nervous as she felt, "there's something I've been meaning to talk to you about."

"Hmmm?" He fiddled with something behind the counter.

"You and Walker." She cleared her throat. "Was there … anything between you two?"

Chuck's head jerked up. "Why would you ask that?"

"Just a feeling," she said, keeping her voice light. "But I've come to trust my feelings over the years."

He shook his head, looking agitated. "Come on, Zondra. You know that would've been against the rules. Sarah and I were friends. Really good friends, actually, the way I hope you and I will be one day. I liked her. She always went out of her way to protect me and look out for my best interests, not the government's. I respected her for that, though I can't say kissing Agent Larkin in my bedroom was her finest moment. She's still an incredible agent in my book. But anything more—I mean, give me a break. I'm just an underachieving nerd, making eleven dollars an hour at the Buy More, who was unlucky enough to open the wrong email. She's—well, herself. Talk about a mismatch, you know what I mean?"

Zondra did not, in fact, know what he meant. Get Chuck out of that stupid uniform, and he was cute as hell. Even in the damn uniform, he was a hottie. The man made nerd look good. "If you say so," she said, drumming her fingers on the counter.

"Why do you ask?" he said again. "I mean, why now?"

She gazed up at him through her lashes. "Just assessing the playing field."

"The—what?" He looked genuinely baffled.

"Never mind." There would be time enough to speak her mind later. "Your shift's almost over, right? Can I give you a ride home?"

He clicked a few keys, presumably closing out whatever he was working on. "Sure, a ride would be nice. Thanks."

On the way to her Jeep, she stole sideways glances at him. He seemed oblivious, chattering on about his worries for Casey and how guilty he felt. It had been a long time since Zondra had spent time with someone who so obviously had a conscience and wasn't afraid to let his moral flag fly. Chuck said what he meant, meant what he said, and cared about the people in his life enough to take risks for them—and acknowledge his own culpability. God, it was refreshing.

She unlocked the Jeep and he climbed into the passenger seat. The faint scent of his cologne filled the car—spicy but not overwhelming—as she backed out of the spot and pulled into traffic.

They drove in silence for a little while before Chuck spoke again. "Zondra?" he said as they merged onto the main road that led to Echo Park. "I've been thinking about what you asked me before. You know, about me and Sarah—I just want to make sure you know there was nothing between us. It's important to me that you don't get the wrong idea. I mean, Sarah's already been reassigned, but I don't wanna wind up living in a bunker because you think I don't understand how to abide by the rules. I mean, Graham's not exactly my biggest fan. Who knows what he would do to me or my family if he thought I violated the rules on that level. I like seeing sunshine and breathing air aboveground, you know?"

She turned her head to look at him. The whites of his eyes shone in the darkness of the car. "I appreciate you letting me know, Chuck," she said, daring to place her free hand on his thigh. "And while I also appreciate your respect for regulations, you should know that I'm not above reinterpreting the rules from time to time … especially if the cause is worthwhile. Graham doesn't need to know everything."

He'd gone still under her fingers, a statue-version of himself, and she worried that she'd shocked him. Carefully, she took her hand away and draped it back over the wheel. "Anyhow," she said, "enough about that. Tell me about your day."

Looking relieved—he really was so innocent!—Chuck babbled a bunch of tech-speak about firewalls, security protocols, proper methods of coding, irate customers, and a bunch of other stuff that went right over Zondra's head. She hummed in affirmation from time to time just to let him know she was listening, thinking all the while about how Graham and Beckman were underutilizing his skills. Chuck was so much more than just an asset or vehicle for the Intersect. He was a force to be reckoned with, and she would show him that she, at least, respected what he could do.

They pulled up at the apartment complex, and Zondra whipped the Jeep into a spot. "You want to come in for a bit?" she said, trying to sound as if the invitation didn't matter to her all that much. "Have a drink? Maybe watch a movie?"

He shook his head, grabbing his satchel and opening the door. "Thanks, but I'd better make sure Casey hasn't pickled his brain in a vat of whisky. The guy looked wrecked when he headed out. Can I get a rain check?"

"Sure," she said, fighting to keep the disappointment off her face. "You need any backup?"

"Thanks again, but I better go in alone." She'd come around the car, and he gave her a quick hug goodbye. "The dude's humiliated enough, and it's all my fault. Let me deal with the nuclear fallout this time. I'll see you soon, okay?"

Shouldering the satchel, he gave her a quick wave and turned to leave. Zondra leaned against the Jeep, pondering as he walked away. She could be patient, she decided. She'd give him time. But it wasn't every day a genuine guy like him walked into her life. She wasn't about to lose her chance to be with him because she was too cowardly to speak her mind.

OoOoOoOoO

There was something to be said for high-quality whisky, especially when the bottle bore the coveted 'Johnnie Walker Blue' label. Casey considered himself a connoisseur of fine scotches and the Blue label was strictly for special occasions. He had a liquor cabinet stocked with a few bottles of Johnnie Walker Black and Red. The Black was for forgetting. The Red was for remembering. But the Blue, that was for the rarest of indulgences: allowing himself to feel.

He would never admit it, at least to anyone living, but his heart had been shattered into a million pieces. For the briefest of moments, Casey had actually allowed himself to imagine a different life. A life with Ilsa. She really was the perfect woman. Finding out that she was a spy didn't dampen her appeal in the least. It'd only made her more mysterious, more alluring—unattainable.

That damn Bartowski, always with his head in the clouds. Casey had actually bought into his crap. Had him thinking just like the moron. Figured that if he just put himself out there, things would magically work themselves out. He believed in what Chuck was saying because he believed in Chuck. Well, that's obviously not how things worked in the real world. Thinking like that should be left to dreamers and fools. This poor schmuck had learned his lesson. Casey would never let it happen again.

So here he was in his apartment, kicked back in a recliner with his shirt unbuttoned and a bottle in his hand, listening to Neil Diamond. He hummed along as Doc sang. "Love on the rocks, ain't no big surprise. Just pour me a drink and I'll tell you more lies."

Unannounced, Chuck walked in. He peered down at Casey, concern written all over his face. "Ah, a lot of Scotch and a little Neil. Everything okay, buddy?" Chuck said, hovering.

"Just enjoying myself a little R&R," Casey said, tipping back his glass. "Heh, heh."

"Mm-hm," Chuck said, sounding unconvinced. Well, what did it matter what Bartowski thought? This was Casey's apartment. If he wanted to lounge around in his underwear and an unbuttoned shirt, drinking himself into a stupor, the moron didn't have the right to say anything about it. It was partly his fault, after all.

Since Bartowski was here, though, maybe he'd like to join the party. "Wanna drink?" Casey said, waving the bottle.

"No, no. Thanks, though. I really appreciate it," Chuck said, sitting down on an equipment crate. "No, just, uh—just thought I'd check in on you, you know, what with Ilsa getting married in an hour and—"

Seriously? It was bad enough that Chuck had led Casey down this road in the first place. Now he wanted to revisit Ladyfeelingsville again? "Thanks for reminding me," Casey said, lifting his glass in a toast. "Here's to John Casey dodging another bullet."

Bartowski gave him the most insincere smile Casey had ever seen.

"It's not like I want the wife and kids and the Little League practice and the minivan and the Costco runs." _Did _he, though? If not with Ilsa, then with someone, eventually? He tried to imagine Ilsa in Costco and failed utterly. She belonged somewhere as beautiful as she was, with a guy who appreciated her, not a two-bit Russian lout who climbed on top of her like she was a ride at the fair and then passed out cold.

Chuck laughed, but not like he thought Casey was funny—more like he didn't believe a word that was coming out of the NSA agent's mouth. It was annoying. "Yeah. Really? You don't? Cause I … it seems to me that you'd kind of be into the whole American dream."

Was the bastard telepathic, on top of everything else? "Nah." Casey sat up, clinking his bottle down onto the table. "I do what I do, so all those other slobs out there can have it."

Anyone else would've backed off. But not Bartowski. "What, ah, what would you say your dream is?" Mr. Intersect said, looking as if he really wanted to know.

Casey had given Chuck way too much access to his inner sanctum already. There was no way he was sitting around having a touchy-feely conversation that would ruin a perfectly good bottle of whisky. Sure, it was his wallowing whisky, but wallowing was a solitary activity. "You're looking at it," he said, grabbing the hot pocket he'd made forty-five minutes ago and promptly forgotten about. He took a big bite, for purposes of persuasion, and instantly regretted it. The thing tasted like burnt glue and smelled like a camel's ass. He wasn't even sure what it was meant to contain—ham and cheese, maybe? Either way, it mixed poorly with whisky. Note to self: Combo not to be repeated.

He stood up—a dicey move, as his balance was less than ideal—and grabbed the locket Ilsa had given back to him. He'd draped it over one of his bonsai trees, like the world's most depressing Christmas ornament. "Besides, Chuck, it's not like Ilsa left me empty-handed," he said, dangling it from one finger.

"What's that?" Bartowski said, eyeing it.

"Just a cheap little trinket I used to think meant something." He dropped it onto the table next to Chuck. Maybe the moron could re-gift it to Walker for Christmas, pass on the shitty karma. Or maybe Casey should just use it for target practice.

The locket hit the table with a thud, and a small, round object popped out of it—an object that definitely hadn't been there when the locket was made. Bartowski picked it up, turned it over—and flashed.

Great. A crappy day had just been elevated to an exponentially crappy one. Whatever the round object was, it meant trouble—and Casey had had just about enough trouble for the past twenty-four hours. He was off-duty. On vacation. Taking a freaking break. He sat down in his chair again, to prove it to himself.

Except that this involved Ilsa, so he couldn't leave well enough alone. Nope, he was leaning forward, glaring at Bartowski, waiting for the guy to come out of his Intersect trance. As soon as Chuck did, Casey said, "You mind telling me what that is?"

"It's an RX 77 Long-Range Audio Transmitter," Chuck said, like he was reading it from a manual.

"Someone was listening in on Ilsa?" God, this wasn't his problem—except he was about to make it exactly that. What was _wrong _with him? She'd rejected him. He'd custom-selected whisky for the occasion. Now this?

"With a Russian-made bug," Bartowski said, settling the matter.

"That means they heard last night. That means Victor knows she's a spy." Casey lurched to his feet, going for his gun.

"Whoa, uh, hey, Casey." There was Bartowski again, like an annoying, man-sized gnat. "Casey, Casey. Casey, hey, hey, hey, where you going? Where you going?"

Wasn't it obvious? "To stop a wedding, Chuck." He tried to shove the gun into the waistband of his pants—and became uncomfortably aware he wasn't wearing any. Well, that would have to be remedied.

"No, no, no, no, no. No, you're not. No, you're not." The moron sounded alarmed. "Scotch and driving, very, very bad combo. And as far as I know, also illegal."

There Bartowski went, appealing to Casey's better side—obedience to the law … when it suited him. "You're absolutely right," he said, slamming his keys into Chuck's chest. "You're driving." Casey headed for the stairs. A guy had to have his pride, after all, even at times like these. "I need pants."

OoOoOoOoO

Zondra was standing by the window, sipping the drink she'd hoped to share with Chuck, when she saw Casey barrel out the door of his apartment like his hair was on fire. Chuck was right behind him, looking distraught. He gesticulated at Casey, trying to get the NSA agent to slow down, but Casey shook his head and headed straight for the Chevrolet Suburban that had temporarily replaced his beloved Crown Vic.

To Zondra's shock, Casey headed for the passenger's side, wrenched the door open, and heaved himself into the SUV. Her mouth dropped open. Casey was letting Chuck drive his car? He never relinquished control to anyone, much less someone he'd often referred to as "the moron." And yet here Chuck was, sliding into the driver's seat and starting up the engine.

She'd seen Casey stumble a little on their way out of the courtyard. Was the NSA agent drunk? And where the hell were the two of them going in such a hurry?

Wherever it was, Zondra had a feeling nothing good could come from it. With a resigned feeling in the pit of her stomach, she poured out her own drink—just in case she was called into action—and started tracking Chuck's watch, keys in hand.

OoOoOoOoO

Chuck was in a tailspin. Things had gone pear-shaped in such a short period of time. He pulled up in the roundabout of the hotel's entrance and watched in horror as Casey jumped out of the SUV before the car stopped. Putting the Suburban in park, Chuck leapt out and tossed the keys to the valet mid-sprint.

As he chased Casey into the hotel, Chuck remembered his promise to Sarah. She'd kill him if he didn't at least call her and let her know the trouble he and Casey were about to walk into. Who was he kidding—she'd probably kill him anyway.

He fished out his phone to dial her number just as Casey slid on the slick tile of the hotel floor and almost fell. With his other hand, he grabbed the NSA agent's arm, steadying him. "Whoa," he said to Casey, and then, as Sarah picked up the call, "Hi, hey, hey."

He must've sounded as panicked as he felt, because she didn't even bother to say hello. "What's going on, Chuck?" Suspicion rang clear in her voice—and he couldn't blame her.

"I'm with Casey at the Grand Seville," he said, not making the effort to speak quietly. Casey was scanning the lobby, ignoring Chuck. He could strip to his underwear and streak to the elevators, and he didn't think Casey would notice. "Victor planted a bug on Ilsa. He knows she's a spy. She's walking into a trap."

If Sarah had any questions, she didn't ask them. "I'm on my way," she said immediately. "Stay out of this, Chuck." Before he could explain just how impossible that was, she disconnected the call.

"This way," Chuck said, steering Casey to the elevators and then down the hallway toward Ilsa's room. It wasn't easy—the NSA agent seemed simultaneously determined to run at top speed and crumple onto the carpet. "Casey—" he began, thinking they should come up with a game plan before they barged into a Russian crime boss's lair.

"Shhh," Casey said as he lurched into the wall.

"But Casey—"

"You shut up." They'd reached Ilsa's door, and Casey—entirely predictably—drew his gun. Could he even aim properly when he was this intoxicated? Chuck had a sinking feeling he was about to find out.

"Shhh," Casey admonished him again, even though Chuck hadn't said a word. There was a manic grin on the NSA agent's face that seemed entirely inappropriate, given their situation. Was it possible Casey was—having fun? Oh, they were so screwed.

Casey fumbled in the pocket of his button-down and pulled out a key card, brandishing it at Chuck like a little kid showing their mom the drawing they'd made in kindergarten. Chuck couldn't decide whether to be impressed or appalled. "Where did you get that?" he said, but Casey's vocabulary—never very extensive—seemed to have narrowed to a single sibilant syllable.

"Shhh!" he said again, and opened the door. "Ilsa?" he whispered as they eased into the room. "Ilsa?"

Ilsa was not present. However, several other people were: Victor Federov, dressed in his wedding tux, flanked by two similarly-attired guys who had their guns trained on Chuck and Casey.

Sarah was going to kill Chuck, if Victor's men didn't beat her to it.

"I assume you are with the bride's party," Victor said, arms crossed over his chest. The crime boss watched, looking bored, as his henchmen took Casey's gun—and then, inexplicably, forced the NSA agent into a tuxedo that looked just like Victor's. Was this some kind of weird fetish? Where the hell had they found a tux that would fit a behemoth like John Casey on such short notice? And why was Chuck thinking about Casey's clothing during what might well be the last few minutes of his life?

Once Victor was satisfied with Casey's ensemble, his minions tied Chuck and Casey to chairs, back to back. "You make for handsome groom," Victor said, looking Casey over. "It's a shame to ruin the suit."

The man was a lunatic. A Silence-of-the-Lambs-level, rubs-the-lotion-on-its-skin, card-carrying sociopath with a peculiar affinity for formalwear. "Ruin it how exactly?" Chuck squeaked, because apparently even in situations where his life was in danger, he couldn't stop talking. "How would you ruin it? With bullet holes or blood or would you just—?"

"Shut up, Chuck," Casey said, which was good advice. Chuck intended to take it.

"Shutting up," he said, and did.

"Where's Ilsa?" Casey demanded, sounding utterly sober.

"On her way to the ceremony," Victor said. "Quite a woman, huh?"

Casey didn't say a word.

"I'm gonna miss her," Victor continued. "Oh, well. At least we get to have our wedding night."

Chuck had his back to the crime boss, which meant Casey was staring directly at Victor. Chuck could only imagine the look on the NSA agent's face—but he didn't have to imagine the rage that reverberated through Casey's body. Tied back-to-back as they were, he could feel it. "Leave her out of this," Casey growled.

"I have another proposal," Victor went on, unfazed. "I was so moved by listening to you and Ilsa say goodbye—what if I told you, you get to keep the girl? In fact, how would you and Ilsa like to go on my honeymoon?"

Chuck twisted his head, looking over his shoulder. "I love that idea. I don't even have to go."

They both ignored him. "You mean let me die in your place," Casey said, each syllable a dagger. "What did you have in mind, Victor? A plane crash over the Pacific? A fiery wreck that leaves nothing behind but our two charred corpses?"

"Three corpses." Victor sounded cheerful. "Your friend will play the role of a pilot. Or maybe one of those men stewardesses."

By 'your friend,' the crime boss meant Chuck. Great, his last act in life would be some kind of bizarre method acting—right before he died in an inferno.

Oh, Sarah was going to be _so _pissed.

"If you'll excuse me, my associates have come to see me married. I would hate to disappoint them," Victor said.

He turned and walked out, leaving his henchmen behind.

OoOoOoOoO

This was exactly the kind of thing Sarah was afraid of—why she was going to find leaving Chuck tonight and heading back to San Francisco nearly impossible. Panting, she stood at the edge of the wedding ceremony, scanning the crowd for Chuck and Casey. Where were they? Was she too late? She'd driven as fast as she could.

Footsteps sounded behind her—followed by a familiar voice. "Walker?"

Sarah spun and saw Zondra standing there, looking equally out of breath and unnerved. "What the hell are you doing here?" the other agent spat.

Normally, Sarah wouldn't be that excited to see Zondra either—but after what she and Ellie had discovered in Casey's apartment, she'd decided to trust Chuck's instincts. If Chuck thought Zondra had been framed, then maybe she had—and, more to the point, if he thought she was a decent human being who was looking out for him, he was probably right. Either way, Sarah was short of allies—and time.

"You can drop the attitude, Rizzo," she said, staring Zondra down. "We don't have the luxury of dealing with that shit right now. I need to find Chuck. I need to warn him—and you, too. He's in terrible danger. I tracked his watch to this location. Where is he, and more importantly, why isn't he with you?"

"When is he not in danger, and more importantly, what the hell are you doing here when you've been reassigned?" Zondra returned her glare with interest. "Chuck is my assignment now, and he's here with Casey somewhere. I'm not his only handler, you know. My guess is they're trying to stop this wedding—long story. I tracked him here as well. Something's obviously wrong."

Sarah swiveled, searching the crowd once again. Damn, where were they? "Something's wrong, all right. Can we set aside our differences long enough to find them? It's an emergency."

Whatever else Zondra might be, she was a professional—and an excellent agent. More than that, she cared about Chuck; Sarah was certain of it. "Yeah, Blondie," she said, straightening to her full height. "If it's about helping Chuck, we're on the same page. Let's go."

OoOoOoOoO

The cavalry was coming, and her name was Sarah Walker. That's what Chuck had been telling himself for the past ten minutes—except Sarah wasn't here. Just Chuck and Casey, still tied to the chairs, and a couple of Russian goons.

"Casey," Chuck pleaded, "I don't wanna die as a man stewardess."

The moment the words left his lips, he regretted them. Who the hell said 'man stewardess,' anyhow? They were flight attendants, and there was nothing wrong with having a guy show you how to fasten your seat belt and secure your oxygen mask. Was Victor a homophobe as well as a general assclown? The operative part, as far as Chuck was concerned, was that he didn't want to die today—as a flight attendant, pilot, passenger, or anything else. And with every minute that ticked by, escape seemed less likely—unless Sarah had figured out how to see through walls.

"Relax. I think I see a scenario where we both get out of here with acceptable losses." At least Casey still sounded sober. It was the only positive element of this scenario—being disarmed and threatened with incineration seemed to have evaporated every drop of whisky from the NSA agent's system. Less positive was Chuck's certainty that Casey's definition of 'acceptable loss' in no way resembled his own.

"What exactly is your version of acceptable?" he said, and braced himself for the response.

Casey didn't disappoint. "Breaks and punctures, possible loss of a limb. No major organ damage."

_Breaks and punctures? _How many times could a person be punctured and survive? Chuck wasn't sure he wanted to know the answer.

Before he could muster the courage to ask, Casey cleared his throat and addressed Victor's men. "Hey, comrades. Mind if I ask you two fellas a question? Where'd you learn to tie people up, a Rocky & Bullwinkle cartoon?"

The guy had a death wish. There was no other explanation. "I don't think you're helping right now," Chuck said.

"No wonder you lost the Cold War. A couple of Girl Scouts could tie people up better than this." Casey's voice held a jeering undertone.

He was _making fun _of the Russian mobsters? That was his grand plan—heckle the goons until they snapped? Maybe Casey was still drunker than Chuck thought.

Chuck heard footsteps as one of the goons approached them. He twisted his head to try to see. "Casey, what are you—"

His breath caught in his throat as the NSA agent head-butted the mobster, then stood and began to fight in earnest, Chuck strapped to his back. Casey ducked and spun, sometimes using Chuck as a weapon to batter Goon #2, who'd come to join the party.

"Like you said," Casey huffed, shoulder-slamming Goon #1 into the wall, "I'm sticking to my strengths."

OoOoOoOoO

Part of Sarah's training at the Farm had been in surveillance. "Observe and monitor all details of your environment, especially when in a hostile situation," her instructors had always told her. "You never know what you might notice or what objects might come in handy as weapons."

So here Sarah was, standing as inconspicuously as possible at the back of the wedding of the woman who had broken Casey's heart, observing. Here were the things she had noticed so far: 1) Victor Federov bore a remarkable resemblance to a smarmy toad in a wig, 2) A number of the men in suits were armed and not bothering to hide it very well, 3) Casey and Chuck were nowhere to be seen, goddamn them—and when she finally found them, she was going to wring Chuck's neck before she kissed him silly, 4) Outdoor weddings were gorgeous, what with the breeze, the greenery, and all of the twinkling lights.

She'd never paid much attention to weddings before, as they seemed like a phenomenon reserved for other people—people without blood on their hands and with room in their hearts for love. After Chuck had given her that beautiful bracelet, though—after he'd said what he did—she realized he wanted them to get married one day. He really wanted her, sins and all—not for a day or a week, but for the rest of their lives.

The thought should've terrified her—but it filled her with a deep, heartfelt joy, exceeded only by her terror that something awful would happen to him before she could swear to love and cherish him forever. Where the hell was he? How did he always get into these impossible situations? And how was she going to go back to San Francisco and leave him behind?

She was going to have to trust Zondra … that was how … Zondra, who was standing next to her, just like old times, her body a nocked arrow.

Sarah wasn't very good at trusting. She'd never had much reason to be—but she wanted to learn. Maybe she could start small, by telling Zondra a carefully curated version of the truth—just enough to keep Chuck safe—when this mess was all over. In the meantime, she was busy noticing, 5) Ilsa Trinchina, gliding down the aisle in her wedding dress, looking gorgeous and serene.

God, the woman was really going to go through with it. She was going to marry a man she despised, solely to infiltrate his organization. She was willing to give up all of her dreams, anything she'd ever wanted, for the sake of the job.

If Sarah hadn't met Chuck, would she have been willing to go that far one day? She liked to think not—but she couldn't say for sure, and the notion chilled her.

"Here comes the bride," Rizzo muttered under her breath. "There's the woman who captured John Casey's heart. Get a good look, Blondie."

"I'm looking," Sarah muttered back. "Let me try something—as a last resort."

She dug in her pocket for her phone and called Chuck's number. Please, God, let him be okay.

One second, two—and then the Mexican hat dance music began blaring from the middle of the crowd. Zondra glanced over at Sarah, then at the man who was coming toward them, cell phone in hand—a man who was definitely _not _Chuck—and started to laugh.

"Man," Rizzo said, cocking an eyebrow the way she always used to do when especially pissed, "you have _got _to be kidding."

"You know him?" Sarah said as the guy got closer. The two of them shifted their weight, preparing to take him down.

"Oh yeah, I know him. Wrenched his hand good when he grabbed my ass. Knocked him out with the top of a serving dish last night. The guy's like a freaking fungus."

"You should've broken his wrist," Sarah said, just as the idiot answered Chuck's phone.

"Hello?" he said in a thick Russian accent.

"Well," Zondra said brightly as she and Sarah crept up behind him, "there's no time like the present."

"Greetings and salutations," Sarah said into the phone, and dropped it back into her pocket.

The guy spun, saw the two of them, and swung. He was as clumsy as he was stupid; Sarah kicked him to the ground and Zondra stepped on his throat, her gun aimed at his head.

"I'm really quite bored," Zondra said, finger on the trigger. "How many times do we have to go through this?"

Sarah had never had Zondra's penchant for banter. Sometimes that bothered her, but right now, she couldn't have cared less. She stood over him, shoulder to shoulder with Zondra, and glared.

"You can answer her question later—if you live that long. You've got five seconds. Where's Chuck Bartowski?"

OoOoOoOoO

Casey might be playing to his strengths, but he was still tied to a chair, which was in turn tied to Chuck—which meant that when Goon #1 hit Casey in the face, his head slammed into the back of Chuck's. All in all, Chuck had had more pleasant evenings.

He was still seeing stars when Casey recovered and kicked Goon #1 somewhere in the midsection—it wasn't as if Chuck could see clearly, given their situation. Goon #1 let out a disgruntled "Ooof" and toppled to the floor (promising) but Goon #2—who Casey had dispatched a few seconds before—was getting to his feet, a murderous look on his face (distinctly upsetting, given that the only thing between him and Chuck was a few feet of empty air).

"Baddie at 6 o'clock!" Chuck yelled—which, although nerdy in retrospect, was also sufficiently descriptive.

Casey spun and kicked the guy in the face. Then he turned back around to deal with Goon #1—the NSA agent must have the strength of the Hulk, given that Chuck was strapped to him like the world's most unwieldy backpack. Goon #2 bared his teeth at Chuck and let out a laugh. Clearly, he didn't believe Chuck was a threat. The goon charged, and before Chuck could think too hard about it, he kicked the guy in the stomach.

Goon #2 stumbled back, wheezing, his eyes wide in disbelief and his hands plastered over his gut. Chuck crowed in victory. "Whoa! How do you like me now, sucker?"

Before he could come to terms with the fact that he'd knocked the air out of a Russian mobster, Goon #1 got up again—what was the guy, a Weeble?—and kicked Casey. Given where Chuck and Casey were unfortunate enough to be standing at the time, the kick sent the two of them flying out onto the balcony. Chuck wound up pressed against the railing, a flimsy bar the only barrier between him and the abyss.

All of the bravado that had filled him a moment before fled, replaced by terror. "Casey, Casey, Casey!" he said, as if the NSA agent had any doubt who he might be talking to. "High, very—it's so very high."

Casey didn't dignify this with a response. Instead he fought harder, but with his hands tied behind his back and Chuck a dead weight pressed against the railing, it was a useless pursuit. With each moment, the two of them got closer and closer to pitching off the balcony.

His only option, Chuck decided, was to cheer the NSA agent on. "Get him. Get him," he yelled, as if he was watching a boxing match.

From everything he could hear, Casey was trying—but with minimal appreciable results. Chuck tried to push off the railing, to help, but given the battering Casey was taking, his efforts were useless. "Casey!" he wailed as he began to tip over the railing. "Back! Back! I can't hold it much longer. Very weak sides! Casey?"

OoOoOoOoO

Unbelievable. The asshole had a gun to his head and a stiletto practically puncturing his throat, and he still hadn't done anything but grunt.

"Last chance," Sarah said, side-eyeing Zondra. "Where's Chuck Bartowski?"

The guy opened his mouth as if to speak—and then she heard Chuck scream. Her head turned in the direction of the sound like a compass needle drawn to magnetic north. To her horror, he and Casey were falling through the air, tied to chairs—was that possible?—careening toward the blue water of the hotel swimming pool at what might literally be breakneck speed. They landed with a splash that sent water spilling over the sides of the pool—but not, thank God, with a thud. They were soggy, but safe … for the moment.

"Useless," Zondra said with disgust, clocking the Russian in the head with the butt of her gun. "Come on, Walker. I think we've found Chuck and Casey—and we're not the only ones."

Casey had surfaced, spluttering. The impact had knocked them free of the chairs; he tugged Chuck out of the water and marched out of the pool, looking disgusted. Ten Russians in suits stood, randomly dispersed throughout the crowd, guns pointed at the two of them, but it didn't seem to unnerve Casey in the least—not that Sarah was surprised.

The NSA agent lifted his chin. "Hope I'm not too late to object to this union."

The union had, indeed, been interrupted. Between Sarah and Zondra's altercation with the ass-grabbing idiot and Chuck and Casey's spectacular fall from grace, the ceremony was well and truly stalled. Still in her wedding dress, Ilsa stared at Casey's drenched body in disbelief. Victor stood next to one of his henchmen, arms folded, annoyed as only a wig-wearing toad could look.

"Take these two to my plane and strangle them," he said, gesturing to Chuck and Casey.

"They're not going anywhere," Zondra said, leveling her gun at Victor.

As one, all the henchmen swiveled to point their guns at Zondra. While Sarah wasn't pleased about this development, at least it removed Chuck from the line of fire.

"Really?" To Sarah's exasperation—this guy had no idea who he was dealing with—Victor started to laugh. "Who's gonna stop me? One little girl with, ah, one little gun?"

Zondra feigned surrender, placing her gun on the ground next to Sarah's foot. Victor smirked, which cranked Sarah's aggravation up to a whole new level. Man, it was going to be fun showing him what she and Zondra were capable of. She'd forgotten how well they worked together—and tonight, in the name of saving Chuck's life, she was grateful for their synergy.

"Casey, this is unacceptable," Sarah heard Chuck say as his eyes met hers. He'd just been through God knew what, had fallen five stories from a balcony, nearly drowned, and been held at gunpoint—and the guy was still looking out for her. God, she loved him.

"Shut up, Chuck," Casey replied with typical brevity.

_Trust_, Sarah thought, and kicked Zondra's gun. It flew toward Ilsa, who grabbed it and aimed it at the back of Victor's head. Never one to miss an opportunity, Zondra snatched a gun from one of the Russians standing next to her—he'd been staring, open-mouthed, as Zondra's gun pinwheeled through the air—just as Sarah pulled her own weapon from the back of her waistband.

"Try three little girls," Ilsa said with unmistakable satisfaction.

For the first time since she'd met him, Sarah saw the NSA agent give a wide, uninhibited grin. "Damn," he announced to anyone within earshot. "She looks good with a gun."

OoOoOoOoO

Chuck and Casey sat on the rear of an ambulance, towels draped over their shoulders. For once, Chuck was speechless. Since the Intersect had come into his life, a lot of strange things had happened to him. He'd never anticipated one of them would include falling five stories from a hotel balcony into a pool, tethered to a grumpy NSA agent. Yet here he sat—which was a surprise unto itself. Once their chairs had tipped over the edge of the balcony, he'd expected to die. Then he'd expected to die again, at the hands of Victor and his goons. Sitting on the back of an ambulance, soaked to the bone and only slightly bruised, was a pleasant surprise.

He watched in a daze as Zondra and Ilsa took point, directing federal agents from the FBI, CIA, and local law enforcement in the cleanup that followed Victor Federov and his men's arrests. His focus narrowed sharply as Sarah walked up to them. Kicking the gun like that, straight to Ilsa—God, she was amazing. She'd come to his rescue, just like she'd promised. He just hoped she hadn't exposed herself too badly by showing up at the Grand Seville when she was supposed to be in San Francisco with Bryce. The last thing he wanted was to get her in trouble.

"Are you guys okay?" Sarah said. Her eyes flicked over Chuck, searching for damage. Never had he wanted to throw his arms around her more—but he knew he couldn't move. No, he had to act surprised and happy to see her, like there was nothing between them but a former asset/handler relationship and maybe an enduring friendship.

"Sarah!" he said, doing what he did worst—bending the truth. "What are you doing here? Man, you've got great timing."

He must have sounded as idiotic as he felt, because she just rolled her eyes at him, a smile tugging at the corner of her lips.

"Bartowski's got a point," Casey said, his voice hoarse from shouting. "What brings you back to Burbank, Walker? And are you sticking around?"

Sarah glanced left and right, to make sure no one was listening. Then she stepped closer to them, pitching her voice low.

"I owe you an apology, Casey," she said.

"Yeah?" He wrung out the bottom of his dress shirt, which dripped onto the ground. "For what?"

"I received intel that Beckman had ordered you to take Chuck out. I know I'm not his handler anymore, but there was no way I'd allow that to happen. So I came back, broke into your apartment, and started dismantling your weapons caches. But when I did—I found a box with … well, you know what was in it." She swallowed hard. "I know I should've trusted you. But I didn't, and I was wrong. I screwed up, I violated your privacy, and I'm sorry. Thank you for putting all of those documents together, Casey. For risking yourself to help Chuck. You're—well, you're a man of honor and a true friend."

Chuck held his breath, half-expecting Casey to explode. His home was his sanctuary; Chuck couldn't imagine that the ex-Marine would take breaking and entering lightly. But when he glanced at Casey, the guy looked completely unfazed.

"Is that all, Walker?" he said. "Hate to break it to you, but you're not telling me anything I don't already know. I appreciate you owning up to it, though—and putting everything back so nicely. You're right, I do have Chuck's back—and yours."

Sarah's mouth fell open. So did Chuck's. Luckily, Casey wasn't looking at him.

"How did you know?" she said.

The NSA agent shrugged. "I've got a lipstick camera planted in Dutch's bust. Low-tech, but it worked." He elbowed Chuck in the ribs. "Next time, jam all the video signals that aren't tied into the main system, Bartowski. You're great with the high-tech stuff, but the basic tricks slide right by you."

A blush heated Chuck's face. He didn't dare look at Sarah. "I'm sorry, Casey," he mumbled.

"What I can't figure out," Casey went on, "is what Ellie was doing there. You two read her in, huh? And you think I took a risk. Graham and Beckman would have both your heads."

Sarah cleared her throat. "We had our reasons—but I don't have time to get into it right now. What you should know, though, is that Chuck always thought you were on his side. He never believed you'd follow that order. He trusted you, the way I should have."

The NSA agent fell silent. Then he clapped Chuck on the back, which nearly sent him tumbling out of the ambulance. "Always knew you were smart, Bartowski," he said gruffly.

"Did … did you just pay me a compliment?" Maybe the fall into the pool had clogged Chuck's ears.

"Don't let it go to your head, moron. Not likely to happen again." Casey turned to look at Sarah. "I'm not holding it against you, Walker. Or you either, Bartowski. Would've done the same thing in your shoes."

"I—" Sarah began, but then stopped abruptly as Zondra approached. God, all of these secrets within secrets were exhausting. Chuck was _so _not cut out to be a spy.

Casey's face was as blank as if they'd been discussing the weather. As for Sarah, she just looked expectant.

"Walker," Zondra said, coming level with the ambulance. "A word?"

"Sure. Glad you're not dead," Sarah said, giving Casey a hug. Chuck had just enough time to see her whisper something into the ear Zondra couldn't see—state secrets? Her recipe for poisonous soufflé?—before she walked away, her former best friend at her side.

OoOoOoOoO

"So," Zondra said, leaning back in her chair and crossing her legs at the ankles, "now that Federov and his men are out of the picture, Chuck and Casey are safe, and Ilsa isn't marrying that asshole, are you ready to explain what the hell's going on?"

The two of them were sitting on a side patio of the hotel, complete with palm trees, a fire pit, and a scattered assortment of tables and chairs. They'd chosen the seating arrangement that gave them the best view of the door that led back into the hotel—the only means of accessing the patio, unless you planned to creep through the underbrush on your belly like the world's most intrusive snake. It would've been a lovely setup, if Sarah wasn't so freaked out about the conversation they were about to have.

"Thank you for looking out for Chuck," she said, dipping her head toward Zondra in acknowledgment.

"It's my job. Which reminds me that it's not yours—anymore. What exactly are you doing here?" Zondra sounded hostile—not that Sarah could blame her.

"I told you." Sarah knotted her fingers in her lap. "There's a threat to Chuck's life. Specifically, I got intel that Beckman and Graham are planning to take Chuck out when the new Intersect goes live. Most likely they'll order you or Casey to do it. I don't care if Chuck's not my asset anymore—I'm not going to let that happen. So I came back to warn both of you and make sure you wouldn't follow through. I've already spoken with Casey—he's got Chuck's back."

"Hmmm." It was the skeptical sound Zondra made when she didn't think someone was telling her the whole story. In this case, of course, she was right.

Sarah got to her feet, pacing the patio. This wasn't a conversation she could have sitting down. "When Bryce was shot—when he thought he was going to die—he told Fulcrum he was the Intersect, to lead them away from Chuck … and to save his own life. They saved him, put him in the deep freeze—but of course by then he'd already emailed the Intersect to Chuck. When Graham reassigned me with Bryce, part of our mission was to leak Bryce's identity and the fact that he still possessed the Intersect. But when I asked him about it…" Her voice trailed off, remembering, and she trembled with renewed anger.

"When you asked him about it, _what, _Blondie?" Zondra pushed her chair back from the table. "Spit it out. Time's a'wastin'."

Coming to a stop in front of Zondra, Sarah cleared her throat. "When I asked him about it, he said, and I quote: 'Bartowski's time as the Intersect is coming to a close. The new one will be on line shortly, at which time he will no longer be our concern.' That worried me enough—but then, like I said, I got word that the order had been given to terminate Chuck. So here I am—and not a second too soon, given the bullshit that was going down when I got here."

"I would've handled it, Walker. I _was _handling it." She snared Sarah's chair with her foot and pushed it out. "Sit down and stop pacing, would you?"

Sighing, Sarah dropped back into her seat and folded her arms across her chest. "Happy?"

"No. Happy is the opposite of what I am right now. You're saying Graham and Beckman are willing to kill Chuck, despite everything he's done to help our country, after he found himself in this crazy situation through no fault of his own … just because they can replace him with the new and improved version?" Zondra's voice was low and measured, but Sarah didn't make the mistake of thinking that meant the other agent was calm. She'd heard Zondra sound like this before—right before she put a knife through a man's eye.

"That's exactly what I'm saying." Sarah spread her hands on the wrought-iron surface of the table, letting the metal bite into her palms.

"That's bullshit," Zondra declared. "It would be bullshit for anyone, but for Chuck in particular—he's such a good person. He's kind. He goes out of his way to protect everyone, even people who don't deserve it. But Graham and Beckman don't care about any of that. They see something they can use, and then, when something better comes along, they're like little kids who got sick of last year's toy. Well, he's not a toy. He's a goddamn hero. Have they lost their minds?"

"You like him." With an effort, Sarah kept her voice neutral.

Zondra's eyes flashed to hers. "Who, Chuck? Of course I do. Who wouldn't, for all the reasons I just enumerated?"

On the other side of the foliage, traffic rolled by—a steady hum that formed a counterpoint to the roiling tangle of emotions that undergirded their conversation. Sarah said nothing, but her silence was as eloquent as Zondra's "hmmm."

"What about you?" Zondra said, her eyes narrowing.

"What about me?"

"You like him, too. More than like him. Don't you?"

"Chuck and I are good friends." Sarah could feel her heart pounding. "He's special—anyone can see that. What exactly are you insinuating?"

"You know exactly what I'm insinuating, Walker." Color rose in Zondra's cheeks. "It wasn't enough for you to take Bryce—now you want Chuck, too? And whatever Sarah Walker wants, Sarah Walker gets. I know how that song goes."

Sarah was an excellent liar—but she didn't have to feign her shock this time around. "Take Bryce from you? What are you talking about? First of all, I got reassigned with Bryce—it wasn't my choice. And second of all … when was he ever yours?"

The wind rustled through the leaves of the palm trees that bordered the patio. Sarah inhaled, smelling exhaust from the street and the citronella of the candles that graced each table, her eyes on Zondra's face. A full minute passed before the other agent spoke.

"At the Farm," she mumbled, glancing away. "When we were training. I was Sandra then."

Sarah jerked back, as surprised as if Zondra had produced a live rabbit and paraded it across the table. "Sandra? The girl he used to be so close to? That was you?"

When Zondra's head came up, the expression on her face was defiant. "That was me, Sarah. Bryce and I—well, let's just say I fought hard for us to be assigned together after our training was over. He wanted it, too. But he didn't get assigned to me. He got solo missions and then assigned to you after the C.A.T.s got disbanded—and then the two of you became something more. Don't bother denying it. Everyone knew."

She'd never heard Zondra sound like this—so vulnerable, her emotions so near the surface. How had the two of them worked together so closely for years, without Zondra mentioning Bryce? Sure, they were spies, and spycraft meant secrecy—but not on a personal level, unless it was a matter of life and death. "Bryce didn't love me," Sarah said. "He was assigned to me, and things just—happened. I had no idea there was ever anything between you. You never said—and neither did he."

"Why would I?" Tears shone in Zondra's eyes. "It's humiliating, Walker. Everything I wanted—it was just handed to you on a silver platter. And if you think Bryce didn't have feelings for you … well, then you weren't paying attention. He died, and my heart was broken. Then suddenly he's alive again, and the next thing I know, you're getting in hot water for kissing him in Chuck's bedroom—and what do they do? Assign you to him _again_! It's like they're doing it on purpose, to torture me."

This was too much for Sarah to take in. "Do you love him, Zondra?" she said quietly.

The tears in Zondra's eyes spilled over, coursing down her cheeks. Wordlessly, she nodded.

"Well, don't let me stand in your way. This time around, I'm just his partner. That's it. I've made my boundaries very clear. If you want to be with him—go for it. Bryce isn't mine," she said, tapping the table for emphasis. "And Chuck and I are friends." Which was true, as far as it went. He was the best friend she'd ever had. The fact that he was also much more was none of Zondra's business—not to mention, it could get Sarah sanctioned, Chuck bunkered, and God knew what else.

A smile lit Zondra's face. "Really?"

"Really," Sarah confirmed. Maybe Zondra wasn't as into Chuck as she'd seemed. Or maybe what she felt for him was just a crush, because she thought she couldn't be with the man she truly loved. Either way, it made her feel more charitable toward her old friend. "Look, Z—I'm sorry about how things have been between us. I know it took me a long time to believe it—but I think you were set up back when we were in the C.A.T. Squad. I should have trusted you when you told me you weren't the one who planted that bug."

Zondra's eyes had widened at the use of her old nickname. Now she cocked her trademark eyebrow. "Yeah, you should've, Blondie."

"I miss our friendship." It was Sarah's turn to tear up. "Can we try again?"

The eyebrow reached stratospheric heights. "Given that you're buggering off to parts unknown for an indeterminate amount of time—why the hell not? Doesn't seem like I've got a lot to lose." She stuck out her hand, and Sarah took it. "Friends?"

"Friends," Sarah said as they shook.

The two of them sat in silence for a moment, looking at each other across the table. Finally Sarah said with genuine regret, "I've got to go."

"I figured." Zondra stood up, pushing back her chair. "Come on, I'll walk you out."

Try as she might, Sarah couldn't figure out a way to lose Zondra on her way to say goodbye to Chuck, especially since they'd just repaired years of damage to their friendship … and as Chuck's handler, Zondra should be with him, anyhow. This meant that when she located Chuck in the lobby, wearing borrowed clothes that were too big for him, Zondra was by her side—and when the two of them walked out to the valet stand to retrieve Sarah's car, Zondra was shadowing them. The other agent stood by the lobby doors as the valet pulled up in Sarah's Porsche, giving Chuck and Sarah a modicum of privacy—but not nearly enough for Sarah to say the kind of goodbye she had in mind.

"I can't believe you're leaving," Chuck said, running his hand through his hair, which was still damp. "When I thought about saying goodbye to you—well, let's just say this isn't what I pictured."

Sarah hugged him, turning their bodies so his back was to Zondra. At least that way, Zondra wouldn't be able to read Chuck's lips—and as tall as he was, his body would conceal Sarah as well. "Me neither," she said, letting him go. "I'm just glad things weren't worse. I'll miss you so much."

He gave her a sad smile. "Not as much as I'll miss you."

There was so much more she wanted to say, but she was acutely aware of Zondra's presence—so she just squeezed Chuck's hand, tipped the valet, slid behind the wheel of her car, and drove away. Not until she'd pulled out of the parking lot and up to the light at North Pass Avenue did she allow herself to cry.

OoOoOoOoO

It had been a busy 72 hours—the best of his life, and the most terrifying. Chuck missed Sarah like crazy—as if she'd taken an essential part of his soul with him when she left. He was sore in places he'd never imagined—because let's face it, even when strapped to John Casey's back, he was a lover, not a fighter. But he also was filled with a renewed appreciation for being alive … and in the deepest part of his heart, he knew he and Sarah would be together again. His only regret was that Casey and Ilsa wouldn't have a similarly happy ending.

Speaking of the overly muscular devil—maybe Chuck should get up, aches and pains notwithstanding, and offer the dude some consolation. They could do something manly, like watch football—was it even football season?—or chug beer, or grunt while pondering the vagaries of life.

Chuck mustered his energy, intent on executing the first part of this plan—sitting up—when, through his open window, he heard a door across the courtyard creak open … and then the unmistakable sound of Ilsa's voice.

"It was good working with you," she said.

"You too," Casey replied, his voice lower and more intimate than Chuck had ever heard it.

Oh my God. Ilsa and Casey were together—right there, in the courtyard. Had things worked out between them after all? If so, maybe Chuck had a new career as the Dear Abby of assassins. It was a limited market, but a worthwhile one, if it meant Casey hadn't gotten his heart smashed to smithereens.

"You're pretty skilled," Ilsa said—which Chuck was sure was the world's least subtle double entendre. He struggled up to his elbows, trying to hear what they were saying.

The NSA agent chuckled. "Got some skills yourself there, Ilsa."

Chuck didn't know whether to be disgusted or to cheer them on. He leapt out of bed and crawled to the window, then peeked above the sash. There they stood, inches apart, staring into each other's eyes like star-crossed lovers. It was a beautiful moment, until—

"What does he think he's doing?" Ilsa said, not even looking Chuck's way.

"Guess he's trying to spy on us." For once, Casey sounded amused rather than pissed off at Chuck's lame attempts at spycraft.

Ilsa looked up into Casey's eyes, as if she was trying to memorize his features. "He's got a lot to learn."

"Mm-hm." Casey's expression was soft. He held Ilsa's hands in his, his grip gentle. This was a version of Casey Chuck had never seen—one he wouldn't have believed existed. The Casey he might have been, before the world got ahold of him, sharpened all his edges, and shoved his heart into the deep freeze. Looking at him, Chuck understood what forces beyond loyalty had motivated the NSA agent to put that box together for him and Sarah. Casey understood love—he'd just had it brutally ripped from him, weighed the options, and decided the risk wasn't worth the cost. But now—God, it made Chuck so happy to see that look on his face.

"Well, I gotta go. Victor's waiting at the airport—" Ilsa said, starting to turn away.

Before she could go anywhere, Casey tugged on her hand, pulling her back to him. He was looking down at her like she was the only person in the world, the only one that mattered. Probably, Chuck realized, because in that moment, she was.

"—in a holding cell," Ilsa finished, looking up into Casey's face. "His extradition papers just came in."

"Well, you lovebirds have a safe flight. Sorry I had to blow your cover," Casey said, not sounding sorry in the least. "I'm gonna miss Ilsa."

She shrugged. "I'm sure I'll find a new one."

"Hope to meet her someday," Casey said, which Chuck decided might be the closest that the big guy might've ever come to saying 'I love you.'

"You will. As soon as I can manage it."

Casey's eyes lit up at this, and Chuck felt like cheering. He hadn't screwed Casey's life up beyond repair. He'd helped, and now maybe Casey and Ilsa could be happy together again.

The NSA agent smiled down at Ilsa. "Well—you better get going or you're gonna miss your flight." Taking her face in his hands, he kissed her—a real, passionate kiss that betrayed a depth of feeling Chuck had only suspected Casey might possess. Watching, Chuck felt a maniacal grin spread across his face. It was a miracle.

"Goodbye, Ilsa," Casey said, letting her go.

"Goodbye, Casey." She dropped his hands, turned, and walked away.

"Hey," Casey said, before she was out of earshot. Ilsa paused, looking over her shoulder. With a straight face, the NSA agent said, "Just so you know, I'm happy you're not dead."

She smiled and strolled away. Casey stood, watching her go, a stoic expression on his face.

Unable to contain himself for a second longer, Chuck raised the shades, climbed out of the window, and stood beside Casey, a hand on the NSA agent's shoulder. Amazingly, Casey didn't gnaw off his arm or otherwise maim Chuck. He just stood there, watching as Ilsa left the courtyard, looking like someone had hit him between the eyes with a hammer.

"What's up, killer?" Chuck said, glee evident in his voice. "You got yourself a new special lady friend or what?"

"She's hopping a plane," Casey said, expressionless once more.

"What? You serious?" Chuck had hoped Ilsa would see Victor Federov off and then come back to Casey—not disappear all over again. "You guys gonna stay in touch?"

"I have a feeling she'll be back someday." There was a dreamy note in Casey's voice. "Might be a while though. She's going back undercover."

So that's what Casey had meant by 'hope to meet her someday.' "Wow, that really sucks," he said, reflecting on how much he'd missed Sarah until she'd come back—and how much he missed her right now.

"A spy's life, Chuck," Casey said, shrugging.

"Well, don't you worry, buddy. You'll always have me. I'm not going anywhere."

Chuck meant it to be reassuring, but from the look Casey shot him, perhaps his comment had the opposite effect.

"Uh-huh," the NSA agent said, turning to go back into his apartment.

Undaunted, Chuck slung an arm over Casey's shoulder again. "Well, Casey," he said, feeling more positive than he had in days, "I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship."

He expected Casey to grunt, or maybe invite him in for a beer. Instead, the NSA agent shrugged off Chuck's arm, shoved him hard into the bushes, and closed his apartment door.

Chuck struggled to disentangle himself, but no go. He just lay there, entangled in leaves and branches, and couldn't help but smile. "Or not," he called after Casey.

There was no reply, but Chuck knew better, all the same. Casey cared about him. He was looking after him. It made all the difference in the world.

Even though Sarah was miles away, Graham and Beckman were up to no good, and there was a super-computer embedded in his brain, for the first time since all of this Intersect mess had begun, Chuck felt happy. He looked up at the slice of sky he could see, drew a deep breath, and stood up, ready for whatever might come his way.

* * *

As always, we want to know what you think! Please leave a review.


	11. Chuck vs Big Mike's Stuffed Fish

Chapter Eleven … in which Chuck jumps to conclusions, Zondra reveals an unexpected weakness, Sarah seeks to channel her inner nerd, and Bryce makes a sacrifice.

This chapter starts the Marlin arc and the beginning of the end of Season One. Subsequent to this episode, expect to see a strong divergence from canon going forward.

Disclaimer: We don't own Chuck…

* * *

**Chapter 11: Chuck vs Big Mike's Stuffed Fish  
**

Sitting alone in her hotel room with her phone in hand, Sarah flipped through some pictures she'd taken of her and Chuck.

_Flip._ The two of them snuggling on his couch, watching an old movie, Ellie and Devon laughing in the background.

_Flip. _Sarah holding onto Chuck's shoulders, giggling as he pretended to toss her into the courtyard fountain.

_Flip. _Her, on Halloween, wearing a Princess Leia costume, looking happier than she could remember feeling in a long time. Chuck stood next to her in his blue shirt and tie, grinning at the camera like he'd won the lottery. God, that smile of his.

The pictures weren't helping—they only served to remind her of what she'd lost. She missed Chuck so much, it was becoming hard for her to breathe. Clenching the phone with such force she worried she might shatter it, she dropped her hands into her lap and stared at the ceiling, trying to bring her emotions under control. Her stomach churned as her heart pounded heavily against her chest—each beat a dull, unyielding ache that settled deep into the core of her bones.

It'd been thirty-one days, sixteen hours, and forty-three minutes since she left Burbank.

Christmas and New Year's had come and gone and although she'd spoken with Chuck on both occasions, she'd never felt so lonely in her life. Just as she'd suspected after they'd made love for the first time, he'd become part of her—a phantom limb she could still feel. It sounded dramatic, but that was how she felt—like something vital and precious had been severed from her and she wouldn't be able to heal until she and Chuck were back together again. Before she'd met him, she hadn't sobbed since she was a little girl. Now, it felt like she couldn't stop. At work, she was okay—but in the confines of her hotel room, it was a different story.

Lifting her hand to wipe away a tear, she caught the shimmer of her bracelet as the charms jingled in concert. The bracelet acted like a talisman against the gloom—an ever-present reminder of Chuck's love for her. It never left her wrist.

It wasn't Chuck's fault she was so down. He'd been the highlight of every day since she'd come back to San Francisco. He texted her all the time, sending her sweet messages or funny anecdotes. And when it was impossible for them to chat, he left her the most adorable custom-designed emoticons that resembled the two of them kissing, hugging, or holding hands.

Despite the fact that she'd never told him exactly where she was staying, he'd even sent her a bouquet of gardenias—her favorite flower. Never mind how he'd figured out her address … how did he know about the flowers? Had she told him? She didn't think so—but knowing Chuck, she'd mentioned it once in passing and he'd committed it to memory.

It was clear the man was on a mission to find out what she liked. He shared his tastes in music and movies with her, and couldn't wait to hear what she thought of them. When she told him her favorites, somehow playlists of similar genres found their way onto her laptop just a few hours later. It was beyond impressive, if not a little intimidating.

At night Chuck set aside time to video chat with her, never a minute late in calling. Even though they were hundreds of miles apart, he did his best to make their conversations each evening feel like actual dates. Before anything else, he always told her how beautiful she looked. It didn't matter if she was wearing an evening dress or a potato sack—she could see in his eyes that he only noticed her, not her clothing, and he meant every word he said.

They'd spend hours talking about anything and everything—even religion and politics—it didn't matter. He wanted to know _her_—what her opinions were about the subjects that were important to him, challenging her in the process. He could keep her on her toes and he respected and valued her point of view. His curiosity extended well beyond the identity she'd established as Sarah Walker. It was Samantha Rudnik he wanted to connect with—the girl she'd once been, the one who still existed beneath all of her pretenses and guises. And when he spoke of his own dreams and ambitions, he made sure she knew he planned for her to be a part of them. No matter how bad her day was, she always felt inspired after talking with him. Chuck Bartowski was an emotional savant.

But she didn't have nearly enough contact with him to stave off the melancholy that consumed her. She was sure he was just as affected by their separation as she was, but he never let on. Always a radiant smile on his face, a glint in his eye—but hidden beneath the surface, she could sense he was becoming despondent too. The guilt she felt for causing him pain was eating her alive. This was all her fault. He deserved better than this.

Her insecurities were wreaking havoc on her mind, and rightfully so. Chuck had mentioned that even though Zondra had backed off quite a bit, she still flirted with him from time to time. They'd been 'strongly advised' by the bosses to spend a lot more time together—all in the name of keeping him safe, of course—which summoned Sarah's green-eyed monster once again. Zondra had finally met Ellie and hung out at their apartment often. It sounded as if Ellie had even taken a liking to her.

Sarah had to fight off the feeling that she was slowly being replaced. She'd played a large role in creating the situation and she had to find a way to accept the consequences. She had to trust that Chuck would stay true to her. Even if Zondra did have feelings for him, it was better to have someone fighting for Chuck that really cared for him, rather than an indifferent agent who treated him as an expendable asset.

At least that theory hadn't been put to the test since she left. Along with Chuck filling her in, she also had regular, secure correspondences with Casey. He wouldn't sugarcoat things to protect her feelings the way Chuck might, and confirmed that, for the most part, Chuck really had stayed out of trouble: No life-threatening situations so far—just some routine 'observe and report' missions. But based on Chuck's track record, Sarah felt that her luck would soon run out.

After she'd gotten back, she'd wasted no time in asking Bryce about his relationship with Zondra—but the conversation had left her with more questions than answers.

"Yeah, Sandra—or Zondra, I guess I should say—and I were close … a while back," he'd said, tossing a handful of peanuts into his mouth. They'd been sitting at the hotel bar—as good a place as any to bring the subject up. "We were recruited within a few weeks of each other. Hate to admit it, but it was kind of a lonely time, that first little bit at the Farm. We hung out a lot. Not sure why I've never mentioned her to you before. It was a long time ago."

With her index finger, Sarah had traced a line of moisture that ran along the gleaming surface of the bar. "Did you two ever—you know?"

Bryce had raised one dark eyebrow. "A gentleman doesn't kiss and tell."

"Ah." She'd lifted her Pinot Noir in an ironic salute. "Then you should have no problem confessing all."

"Touché." He'd clinked his beer bottle against her glass, then scooped another handful of nuts into his mouth, pausing to chew and swallow before he went on. "Zondra's beautiful, obviously. Back then she was also—well, innocent is the only word that comes to mind. I remember she was really easy to talk to … and a little bit of a nerd—know what I mean?"

At that, she had almost dropped her wine. "No, not really."

"Nerd," Bryce said again, as if repeating the word would clarify its meaning. "Loved these old sci-fi flicks, was always trying to get me to watch them with her. She kinda reminded me of Chuck, now that I think about it."

Sarah had drawn a deep breath, inhaling the scent of roasted peanuts and the spicy taquitos that a couple sitting a few tables away had ordered. In all the time she'd known Zondra, she'd never wanted to talk about anything but the job—achieving the mission's objectives. Literally, kicking ass and taking names. Maybe Chuck and Bryce had gotten to see a side of Zondra she never had. The idea that Zondra and Chuck might be sitting on the couch in his living room right this second, nerding out on sci-fi movies together while, she, Sarah, had to be informed about each and every nuance of pop culture as if she'd crash-landed from Mars … it sent a frisson of jealousy through her entire body. She vowed right then and there to take a closer look at the latest flicks Chuck had sent for her to sample.

When she'd glanced up, Bryce had been studying her, his eyes fixed on her face. "You really do love him, huh," he'd said, tossing back the rest of his beer. "Don't worry, Sarah—Chuck isn't going to cheat on you, not with Zondra or anyone else. He's the most loyal guy I've ever met."

"Who said anything about cheating?" she'd huffed, shoving a tip across the bar.

"No one." Standing when she did, he'd shadowed her as they walked toward the elevator. "No one had to," he'd said, pushing the buttons for their respective floors. "Never thought I'd say this, but I hope one day I find what you have with Chuck. Once, I thought—well, never mind."

"You thought what?" she'd pressed, but he'd shaken his head, a small smile playing on his lips.

"It doesn't matter. I'm glad for you. As for me—who knows … maybe there's still hope."

He'd stepped out of the elevator without another word. The doors had shut behind him, leaving Sarah more confused than ever. Was Bryce even interested in Zondra? Based on what he'd said to Sarah, it sounded like they'd just been friends, maybe with the added perk of benefits. He certainly hadn't talked about her like she was the long-lost love he'd been pining for. Was he kidding himself—or just keeping his feelings for Zondra close to his chest? Or did he honestly not know how he felt?

And what about Zondra's intentions? She'd believed Chuck when he'd said Z wasn't flirting with him as much—and Zondra had sounded sincere when she'd confessed her feelings for Bryce on the patio of the Grande Seville. But how did that square with the way Sarah had seen Zondra acting toward Chuck that day at the Buy More?

The more she thought about it, the more it seemed possible that neither Bryce nor Zondra really knew what they wanted. At the Farm, new agents had been taught not to form attachments. "Spies don't fall in love," as the saying went. She was sure Bryce and Zondra had been fed the same line. Sarah was proof positive it wasn't true. She hadn't had a choice when it came to falling for Chuck—and God knew she'd tried to lie to herself about how she felt for as long as she could.

What was happening to her? Before, she wouldn't have given any thought to Bryce and Zondra's potential connection. She would've been totally focused on work—which, to be fair, still did occupy a significant portion of her mental real estate. Whenever she wasn't thinking about Chuck or her fellow agents' love lives, she was on the verge of pulling out her hair at the lack of progress when it came to their current mission.

Bryce had, of course, filled her in on what had happened with Whittaker and Page as soon as she'd gotten back. To his credit, he hadn't complained in the least about having to cover for her—but they were no closer to figuring out what exactly was going on than they'd been before she left.

According to Bryce, Page had indeed come into town to see Whittaker—but while he was here, he'd met with a computer scientist named Troy Mason who worked with the NSA on projects involving quantum cryptography. Jackson was familiar with Mason through the alphabet grapevine, and said the guy was the best in his field when it came to encryption.

She and Bryce hadn't figured out the implications of Page's meeting with Mason yet, but there was one other piece of the puzzle that troubled them: Page had also placed a call to the Principal Deputy Director of National Intelligence, Donald Kerr himself. Their entire conversation had consisted of two sentences: "He's on board" from Page, with "Understood" as an acknowledgement from Kerr. Then the line had gone dead.

Was Mason the guy Page was referring to, or was it someone else altogether? There was no way to tell at this point. Either way, the situation made Sarah uneasy.

She wasn't much more comfortable regarding the new information they'd gathered about Agents Juliette Reeves and Thomas Channing. Channing continued to be inappropriate, hitting on Sarah every chance he got. It was beginning to really grate on her nerves, and she constantly had to fight the urge to snap him in half like a Thanksgiving wishbone.

Since she'd gotten back to San Francisco a month ago, they'd continued to monitor all of Reeves' and Channing's communications and contacts. The most curious element of their conversations had been secretive references to a mysterious 'Project Janus.' Sarah had looked up 'Janus' to see if she could glean any information from the name, but all she'd learned was that in ancient Roman religion and myth, Janus was the god of beginnings, endings, and gateways—controlling the places between. He was usually shown as having two faces—looking forward to the future and back into the past. While this was interesting from a mythological perspective, it was sorely lacking in practical application—unless the project was named for the two-faced nature of the agents who were discussing it. One thing was for certain: Reeves and Channing were dirty. Sarah was almost sure of it.

Slightly more useful was the fact that several times a week, Reeves visited the Pine Street branch of the First Republic Bank to check her safety deposit box. This was fishy, but Sarah and Bryce needed more information before they could determine what Reeves was up to. They were in a holding pattern, which annoyed Sarah to no end.

As for Graham, he was the ultimate poker player. Neither she nor Chuck had been able to dig up much on him—and while Casey's thumb drive had revealed many of Beckman's dirty little secrets, it hadn't divulged anything about Graham. Sarah felt like Chuck's life was an hourglass, and with every second they failed to come up with a way to neutralize Graham, the sand ran faster. She'd rarely felt so helpless.

Sarah was a woman of action. If she couldn't be with Chuck, then she was damn well going to be doing _something_—but right now, it felt like she was spinning her wheels. She couldn't just sit here, weeping over sentimental photos. Chuck would want her to stay strong. Hell, _she _wanted to stay strong.

She tossed the cell phone onto the bed in disgust just as it rang, startling her. "Hello?" she said, snatching it up before she had a chance to look at the caller ID. "Chuck?"

"Sarah." Bryce's voice was clipped. "Come downstairs. Graham wants a word."

OoOoOoOoO

Chuck cringed as he watched the schwarma girl from the Pita Parlour—Lizzie, he thought her name was—enter the Buy More to deliver yet another order of Middle Eastern cuisine to the boob brothers. She'd been in there almost every day for the past month, and Chuck thought he knew why. As usual, she was dressed in an overly tight-fitting white shirt—showing plenty of cleavage—and jean short-shorts, carrying a cardboard box filled with bags of food, heading for the Nerd Herd counter.

God, why did he have to deal with this shit? Didn't he have enough on his plate? And why the hell did both the Pita Parlour and the Wienerlicious make their female employees dress like some sort of perverted male fantasy? That was messed up in and of itself—but taking advantage of it, the way Jeff and Lester did, was truly offensive. Chuck had been watching them most of the day. They'd spent hours either huddled around a camcorder or pointing it down the blouses of unsuspecting women. The two of them were a sexual harassment lawsuit waiting to happen.

Chuck couldn't understand why Big Mike put up with it. If it were up to him, he'd fire them both in a hot minute and then send letters of apology to every woman they'd ever offended. God knew he'd complained to Big Mike again and again, but his boss didn't seem to care. All Mike had done was reprimand the two sleazebags, telling them to knock it off. "No more mammary cams," he'd scolded them—a phrase that made Chuck's skin crawl. It was bad enough that the Buy More was run by a narcoleptic with a penchant for stuffed fish and offered little to no upward mobility. Did its leadership have to be morally bankrupt on top of everything else?

As he strode toward Jeff and Lester to intercede before things got nasty, he gave serious thought—for the first time since Bryce had figuratively and literally screwed him over at Stanford—to escaping this cesspool and starting his own business. Being with Sarah gave him the confidence to believe anything was possible. If she was brave enough to overcome everything she'd been through and trust him with her heart, then he could surely manage to envision a world in which the Intersect was no longer a deciding factor.

Hell, maybe he could launch a tech startup or something, even if the Intersect was still embedded in his brain. If he could manage to make Sarah Walker fall in love with him, he could do anything. He still couldn't believe they were together—that she felt the same way for him that he did for her, that she'd been willing to wear his mother's charm bracelet knowing the implications.

Man, the look on her face when he'd made that comment about keeping the heirloom in the family … he'd thought she was going to faint. But she hadn't argued or given it back to him—that had to mean something, right? Whenever they video chatted at night, he could see that she always had it on. He never said a word—afraid of scaring her off—but it made him unbelievably happy to see the bracelet on her wrist. Almost like he was there with her, touching her, even though he was hundreds of miles away.

He missed Sarah all the time—the days before she'd come into his life seemed like one long, gray blur, punctuated by playing Call of Duty marathons with Morgan, using an eighth of his brain to fix people's busted technology, being chastised by his sister for not trying to date again, and getting yelled at by Big Mike for failing to make his life even easier—but he especially missed her right now. She would've leveled Jeff and Lester with a glance—right before she kicked their collective scrawny asses.

Sighing, he strode toward the Nerd Herd desk just in time to hear Lizzie say, "Here you guys go. Be careful, it's hot."

She bent over to blow on the food—which had to be nine kinds of unsanitary, and also had the unfortunate side effect of accentuating her cleavage even further. Chuck couldn't help but wonder if she was doing this on purpose. Maybe she was an evil genius who was planning to take over the world, one revealing outfit at a time. If so, her dastardly plan was working … at least on Jeff, who, perverse asshole that he was, filmed the whole thing. Oh, how Chuck wished he could fire him.

"I don't want for you to burn your tongue on it," Lizzie said, turning to face Lester. Behind her, Jeff leered at the mention of the word 'tongue.' What was he, twelve?

"Wow, twenty-nine orders this month. One more and you'll get a free baba ghanoush." Lizzie held out her hand for payment.

Lester gave her a salacious grin, which managed to make him look like a dog panting after a piece of bacon. "I'm reaching in my pocket for money, not for …"

_Please, don't finish that sentence, _Chuck prayed as he walked up behind them. _Whatever you were going to say, please, please God, don't say it.  
_

"Hey, do you have change?" Lester said, which, all things considered, was both surprisingly polite and depressingly cheap. Could the idiot not even tip decently, on top of everything else? It wasn't like working at the Pita Parlour was a road paved with riches.

Looking unfazed, Lizzie took the cash from Lester's hand and turned to leave. Predictably, both Lester and Jeff stared at her ass on her way out. "Did you get it?" Lester said to Jeff, without taking his eyes off Lizzie's denim-clad butt.

Chuck shook his head as he stepped in front of the two of them. They were so busy drooling over Lizzie, they hadn't even noticed he was there.

"Fellas," he said, trying and failing miserably to disguise the disgust in his voice.

Lester's eyes grew wide. **"**Oh, boy," he said, ducking his head in embarrassment.

"What are you guys doing? Or have you forgotten about Big Mike's policy on mammary cams?" Just uttering those words made Chuck feel horribly complicit.

Jeff had hidden the camcorder behind his back. In what might be the least slick move Chuck had ever seen, he slipped the mini-disk out of it and passed it to Lester. "I don't know what you're talking about, Chuck."

"He doesn't know what I'm talking about?" Chuck sighed, giving Lester an exasperated look. "That's so weird. So you didn't actually just remove the offending video from the camcorder and hand it to Lester, who's now hiding it behind his back?"

"What?" Lester passed the disk back to Jeff. "Wow, my feelings are hurt. Charles, after all these years, where's the trust, my friend?" He held up his hands, indicating they were empty.

Being forced to put up with outright lies along with harassment and grossly immature behavior was the last straw. Chuck straightened to his full height, looming over the two of them. "In Jeff's sweaty palms, along with the amateur consumer porn. Give it to me. Now."

"Look—" Lester began.

"No, you look!" Chuck said, incensed. "Give me the damn—"

With diabolical timing, Devon appeared at the end of the DVD aisle. "Hey, Chuck? Uh, can I talk to you for a sec?"

Devon didn't sound like his usual jovial self. Worse still, he didn't seem to notice that he was interrupting a tense conversation … and Jeff had begun to back up, clearly planning to utilize Devon's sudden appearance to cover his escape.

"One minute, Devon." Chuck held up a finger. "Jeff … hand it over. Now!"

Reluctantly, Jeff handed him the disk. Chuck slipped it into his pocket, hoping against all hope that this wouldn't somehow become a situation where he got caught with the mammary cam footage and had to explain how it wasn't his. Ellie would kill him if she caught wind of this. She'd raised him to respect women, not objectify them and poorly tip them for their schwarma.

"Not cool, Charles. So not cool," Lester said, eyeing Chuck's pocket as if he was considering making a grab for the disk.

"_I'm _not cool? Go do some actual work, why don't you." He glared at the two of them as they slunk away, shoulders slumped.

Breathing a sigh of relief, he turned to address Devon. His sister's boyfriend did indeed look distressed—an expression Chuck couldn't recall ever seeing on his face. "Awesome … to see you, Devon," he said, managing to call the guy by his actual name. "What's up?"

"Could you—could we maybe—" He gestured toward one of the aisles.

"Uh, sure." Chuck followed him, looking puzzled.

Devon's default mannerism was confident, but right now he looked anything but. He shifted from one foot to the other, hands shoved in his pockets, and didn't say a word. Finally, Chuck broke the silence. "So, what's on your mind?"

Devon cleared his throat. "Chuck, I was … I was hoping to talk to you about Ellie."

"Yeah?" Chuck felt ill-prepared to deal with an emotional conversation about his sister in the aftermath of Jeff and Lester, but Devon had never been anything but kind to him. He felt he owed it to him to return the favor. "Yeah, yeah, of course."

"Well, you know, ever since, um, ever since we've been dating," Devon said, staring at a package of Kingston memory sticks, "I've come to think of you as the little brother I never had."

Chuck's eyebrows lowered in puzzlement. "Don't you have two younger brothers?"

"Indeed," Devon said, wincing. "Indeed. But you seem like someone who can offer sage wisdom in confusing times and—"

Chuck was doing his best to listen, even though the idea of being a person in possession of sage wisdom seemed absurd. The United States' most closely guarded secrets, sure. But sage wisdom? He made a paltry wage and spent his waking hours defending women's honor from two pervs who—even though he was their supervisor—he somehow didn't have the authority to fire.

He opened his mouth to say as much—and then spotted something suspicious behind the memory sticks. Leaning closer, he caught the marking 'GLG-20'—and flashed.

When he came to, Devon was still talking. "…this is one of those times I am really confused, bro. I don't know how to put this into words…"

"That's a bug," Chuck said to no one in particular.

Devon's mouth dropped open. "What? What? A spider?" He spun, brushing his clothes, and Chuck took the opportunity to snag the device from the shelf. "I hate those fuzzy bastards."

What kind of ridiculous day was this turning out to be? "I think you got him … Awesome. He's gone." Chuck craned his neck, looking around for Casey—who, of course, was nowhere to be seen. "Can you excuse me? I think I just saw a kid crawling into an oven over in Home Appliances."

He turned and headed for the back of the store, hoping the NSA agent would materialize en route. Plaintively, Devon called after him, "Chuck. Chuck, I need you to drop some knowledge, bro."

Chuck needed a lot of things—namely, to put his eyes on the eavesdropping NSA agent. Ignoring Devon, he stormed down the hallway toward the stockroom, hardly noticing Jeff and Lester's presence until they spoke.

"Keep moving, Bartowski," Lester drawled. "We don't associate with turncoats."

Chuck paused for an instant, giving them the once-over. So this was where they'd gone when he'd demanded they do some work—to hold up the drywall in the back hallway. Good to know.

He shot them a contemptuous glare. "And I don't associate with sexual deviants. Not even if I had the time," he said, pausing at the doors to the stockroom. "For the last time, go do your damn jobs before I have to talk to Big Mike."

Not waiting to see if they complied, he stepped into the stockroom. Casey was there, lifting something singlehandedly that anyone else would've required a dolly to negotiate.

"You're getting sloppy, Casey," Chuck said, not bothering to say hello. If the NSA agent could dispense with common courtesies in almost every situation, surely Chuck could follow suit this one time. As crappy as the Buy More might be, it was still the place that issued Chuck's paycheck—and he did take a level of pride in his work. The last thing he wanted was for Awesome or anyone else to reach for a memory stick and wind up holding an NSA surveillance device. "I understand that you have some perverse desire to listen to everybody, but you really need to be more careful when hiding your bugs."

"What are you lip-smacking about, Bartowski?" Casey said, stacking a second box on top of the first.

"I just found this"—he held up the bug—"on one of our product displays and not very well hidden, I might add."

Casey's eyes narrowed, and he snatched the bug out of Chuck's hand, examining it. Undaunted, Chuck continued.

"Normally, I'm a fan of your craftsmanship, if not your methods. Look, all I'm saying is that something like this, discovered by someone less in the know than me, could spell trouble."

"You worry about that supercomputer in your brain, and let me worry about the spy stuff, huh?" Casey's gaze flicked over him from head to toe. "Don't you have a hard drive you can go fix?"

Without saying another word, Casey walked out the doors, bug in hand. Chuck was left alone in the stockroom, irritated and once again, being treated like a child. Casey was the one who'd screwed up, yet somehow, as usual, Chuck was the one paying the price.

Squaring his shoulders, he marched out the door, intending to give Casey a piece of his mind, but it was too late. The NSA agent had vanished into thin air.

OoOoOoOoO

Bryce's room smelled like burnt coffee and Ivory soap—he must've just stepped out of the shower when Graham got in touch. His dark hair was still wet; Sarah could see the comb tracks in it. He'd put his dress shirt and pants back on, though … always the consummate professional.

He and Sarah stood ramrod straight as Graham appeared on the screen. The CIA Director was sitting behind his desk, flipping through a mountain of files. To the uninitiated eye, he probably looked like his normal inscrutable self, but Sarah could tell the difference. The crease between his brows and the loosened knot of his tie were telltale signs: Her boss was frazzled.

"Ah," Graham said, pulling a single piece of paper free. It was the first syllable he'd spoken since Bryce had initiated the teleconference. Dispensing with pleasantries, he dove right in. "Agents, we have a change of plans. Our analysts have come to the conclusion that Fulcrum is about to make a play for their own human Intersect. Primarily, they're thought to be diverting a lot of their attention, energy, and resources into finding you, Agent Larkin."

Sarah knew Graham wouldn't appreciate an interruption, but she couldn't help herself. "I'm sorry, sir, but isn't that a good thing? That was the plan from the beginning—to lead Fulcrum away from Bartowski, right?"

Graham glared at her. "It was never my intention to foolishly risk the lives of my best two agents for some stop-gap, bumbling idiot. Both of you are much too important."

_Stop-gap, bumbling idiot…_it was Chuck he was talking about. After everything they'd been through, everything Chuck had done for his country and the lives he'd saved—including her own—Graham still thought of him as just a nerd with a pocket protector. Fury bubbled up in Sarah's throat, and she fought to keep her face blank as he continued.

"I can't have Agent Larkin hiding in plain sight of the enemy any longer. It's too risky. Fulcrum will eventually figure out who—and more importantly—where he is," the CIA Director said. "It's been a fool's errand to have either of you this close to what we now believe are high-ranking Fulcrum agents, even as Bruce Anderson. It's time for you both to go dark."

Sarah's rage transmuted itself into wary excitement. If she went dark—under the radar—she could slip back to Burbank when she needed to. She could watch over Chuck, keep him safe. Sure, no one could know she was there, but hiding was second nature to her, and L.A. was a huge metropolis. She and Chuck could be together again, even if it had to be in secret—after all, that was no different than how the situation stood to begin with. The possibilities overwhelmed her. She didn't trust herself to speak—but after a quick glance in her direction, Bryce did it for her.

"What exactly would that entail, sir?" he said, hands clasped behind his back. It was a classic "at ease" pose, but from where she stood, Sarah could see his index finger tapping against his knuckles—Bryce's version of Graham's creased brow. Her partner had never liked abrupt changes of plans. In the space of a few months, he'd gone from being co-opted by Fulcrum to being shot in the chest, cryogenically preserved, resurrected, reassigned—and now this. Bryce would do what he was told, to a certain extent—but that didn't mean he had to enjoy it.

"Simple. Right now we need to know the details of what's hiding in Reeves' safe deposit box. We think that's the key." Graham toyed with his cuffs, then flattened his palms on his desk, hiding any sign of nerves or exhaustion. "As I said, it's too dangerous for you to continue to act as undercover FBI agents. Agent Larkin, you're much too visible, and as his partner, Agent Walker, you serve as much too convenient a link. You'll continue to go after intel that will enable us to discover Fulcrum's ultimate goal—but you'll do it from the shadows. We'll create some kind of back story for your sudden departure from your duties. Clear enough?"

"As day, sir," Bryce said.

"And you, Agent Walker?" Graham's too-perceptive gaze settled on Sarah. She looked back at him, her expression serene.

"What you've shared so far is clear, sir. I do have questions, but I expect you'll answer them by the conclusion of this briefing." She offered him a small smile.

Satisfied, Graham sat back in his chair. "Chatter's also been picked up regarding Fulcrum's desire to gain access to some of our more secure NSA facilities. Their primary goal—if they can't get their hands on Agent Larkin—is to acquire the intel itself. They're going after raw data, most likely with the intention of creating an Intersect of their own. Our analysts think that Project Janus is the tip of that spear."

"We'll get inside that safe deposit box." Bryce's voice was confident. "Whatever's in there, you'll have it."

"I know I will, Agent Larkin." He regarded Bryce with something like pride. "After that, I'll need both of you on standby indefinitely. When the time comes, I'll contact you. You'll come to D.C. and be among the first Intersected agents in our arsenal."

The thought horrified Sarah, but she knew Graham meant it to be an honor. She forced a gratified expression onto her face, but her emotions were in turmoil. When Graham contacted her, that would be the signal that Chuck's termination was imminent. The only good thing about this whole mess was that Sarah would know as soon as the new Intersect went live. They had to find a way to take Graham down before then.

"You both deserve the chance to be on our front lines," Graham said, oblivious to the fact that Sarah was plotting his demise. She'd been his pet enforcer for years; he'd never suspect her of betrayal. It was her biggest advantage.

"You're my top agents. We'll be able to take the fight to Fulcrum for a change," he said, allowing himself a smile. "Good day, Agents. Next time I hear from you, I expect it will be with vital information about the contents of that box. Until then, you're officially off the radar. Good luck."

The screen went black, and Sarah sank onto the bed. Bryce went over to the coffeemaker, popped in a pod, and brewed two more cups of the vile stuff.

"Here," he said, handing one to Sarah. "Drink up, partner. We're going to need it."

OoOoOoOoO

Chuck strode back onto the showroom floor. If he couldn't find Casey, at least he could locate Devon and figure out what had gotten Awesome in such a twist. He'd never seen the guy so unnerved.

He scanned the room for Devon, but didn't see him anywhere. Damn, had he left? Chuck craned his neck left and right, but all he saw were shoppers perusing the aisles, employees restocking the shelves, and—

"Uh-huh, uh-huh," Morgan said, materializing in front of Chuck and holding up his hand for a high five. "There's that best buddy of mine."

Acting on instinct, Chuck slapped Morgan's hand. Where the hell was Devon?

"I saw an Infinity Ward mailer in the trash," Morgan said, his eyes glinting with excitement. "That means you got a pre-release demo of the next Call of Duty game?"

Chuck examined the merchandise tree next to Morgan, making sure it didn't contain another bug. All clear, but that didn't mean anything. The way things were going, maybe Casey planned on stapling one to the front of the Nerd Herd desk. "Ah … yeah," he said, "but the last time I lent you a game sampler it ended up all over the Internet. So, this one's gonna stay locked away and you can play it when you get some adult supervision."

Morgan tried to look offended. "Adult super—? Chuck, I'm almost at the age where I should get my prostate checked annually. Surely I could be trusted with an advance copy of the greatest video game on the planet." He over-enunciated the 't,' as if perhaps Chuck hadn't understood the earth-shaking implications of his plight.

On another occasion, Chuck might have been willing to explore this conversation further. Today, however, was not that day. Between the boob brothers, the bug, Casey's dismissive attitude, and Devon's peculiar behavior, his patience was wearing thin. "Have you seen Awesome?"

"Over by the Home Theater Room," Morgan said, dejected. "But—"

Brushing past him, Chuck headed that way. For the second time in thirty minutes, he'd blown someone off; it wasn't like him, but what could he do? He'd needed to talk to Casey, he owed it to Devon to finish their conversation, and no matter what Morgan said, Chuck wasn't going to relinquish the advance copy of Call of Duty into his greedy clutches. He'd apologize to his friend for ignoring him later, and maybe even play the game with him … if Chuck survived that long.

Walking over to the home décor section of the store, he found Devon in a recliner, his head back and a distraught expression on his face, looking distinctly less than awesome. "Hey," Chuck said, sitting down next to his sister's boyfriend. "Sorry about that. False alarm. The kid did not end up defrosting himself, as it turns out. So, uh … what's going on?"

"This is one of those rare moments when things are not kosher, Chuck," Devon said to the ceiling. He dropped his head, but didn't seem to be able to look Chuck in the eye—which was weird, as Awesome was the king of eye contact. "Oh, man," he muttered. "This is harder than I thought."

Now Chuck was getting alarmed. "Uh-huh," he said, trying to read Devon's expression. "Go on. I'm listening."

"Right." Devon sat up, giving Chuck his full attention. "Well, I've been thinking a lot about the way things are between me and your sister and you're the man in Ellie's family, so I was wondering … can I have your permission…" He dug in his pocket, pulled out a ring box, and opened it. "Can I marry Ellie?"

Suddenly all of Devon's nervous energy made sense. Chuck breathed a sigh of relief. Of all the reasons for Awesome to be freaking out, this was by far the best. He'd figured this moment would come at some point, though he hadn't expected Devon to ask for his permission. Ellie was his older sister; he'd never given her permission to do anything, and if he had, she would've laughed in his face and done exactly as she pleased. Still, it was nice to be included.

He leaned over to see the box's contents. The ring inside was formidable—platinum and huge, studded with a massive diamond. It was, in a word … awesome. "Wow," he said, regarding it. "That's quite a rock you got there."

Devon had broken into a sweat. Chuck hadn't seen him glisten this much since the time he'd decided to run fifteen miles before breakfast, on a whim. "Is that a yes? Dude?"

Why did Chuck suddenly feel as if Devon was proposing to _him_, rather than asking for the green light to propose to Ellie? "Yes! Yes! Sorry. I just—you kind of … Wah! You know, you pulled the bling, just right in … Yes, you have my blessing."

"Thank you," Devon said, his face lighting up with a blinding smile. "It's been in my family for years," he said, gesturing to the ring. "This was my great-grandmother's. Uh, you think she'll like it?"

Chuck was in no way an expert on marriage or proposals, but he couldn't imagine his sister would find that ring anything but gorgeous—and heavy. Wear that bad boy for a couple months, and Ellie would have the strongest ring finger on the West Coast. "Like it? She'll love it. I'm just not sure she'll be able to lift her hand anymore."

Devon's grin widened. "Oh, one other thing. Ellie is a bloodhound when it comes to these kind of things. If I keep this in the apartment, she will smell diamond. Can you hold onto this for a day or so, man? I mean, 'til I figure out how to pop the question."

He wanted Chuck to be responsible for a massive diamond ring that had been in his family for generations? Next to this, the charm bracelet Chuck had given Sarah looked like the jewelry you got from one of those coin machines at the grocery store. Not to mention, Chuck's life wasn't exactly incident-free. With his luck, he'd get blown up in the next twenty-four hours, and the ring right along with him.

"I don't think it's actually a good idea—" he began, but Devon wasn't listening.

"Oh, thank you," he said, throwing his arms around Chuck and squeezing him—which kinda hurt. "Thank you so much, bro. Hey, pretty soon I'm gonna mean that literally." He handed Chuck the box. "There you go."

Chuck wanted to give it back, but Devon looked so happy, he didn't have the heart. "All right," he said, and, clapping him on the shoulder, Devon turned to leave.

Opening the box, Chuck regarded the ring one more time. It sparkled in the fluorescent lighting, even brighter than Awesome's smile. He'd never be able to give Sarah anything like this—but he hoped that when the time came, if he asked, she'd say yes. She was the one for him, the only one. He couldn't imagine wanting anyone else, and he hoped she felt the same.

But right now, he had to figure out how to keep Devon's gargantuan, expensive family heirloom safe. The only place he could think to put it was his locker—but that, of course, was also where he'd stashed the new Call of Duty game ... a hiding spot that Morgan would deduce without too much effort. He wouldn't put it past Morgan to break into his locker and snag the game—hell, the guy spent half his time stepping through Chuck's bedroom window uninvited. Devon had said it would just be for twenty-four hours … but those were the same twenty-four hours that Morgan would be on the prowl.

Chuck ran his fingers through his hair. He'd spent the past few months with spies and counterintelligence agents. Surely he could figure out how to hide a video game and a piece of jewelry for a day—or at least keep the latter safe.

Pushing himself to his feet, he began to formulate a plan.

OoOoOoOoO

Zondra stood in the Wienerlicious, wiping down tables and wondering if she'd ever get the smell of burnt wienies out of her hair. Honestly, she didn't know how Sarah had put up with this job for as long as she had. It was the most ridiculous cover imaginable. Sure, she had decent proximity to the Buy More's exterior in the event of an emergency—which was really all that mattered—but the sexist uniform, uncooperative fryers, and steady stream of drooling teenage boys were beginning to get on her nerves. If it wasn't for Chuck, she'd be losing her mind.

He'd become a friend—the first real friend she'd had in years, since Sarah had let her down so badly by believing Zondra was a traitor. After that—not to mention the way Bryce had acted when they left the Farm—Zondra had gotten tired of taking chances on people. She'd had work relationships, a couple casual flings, and that was it. But Chuck—well, he was different. He saw her as a person, not just a handler or an intelligence agent. He didn't play games and he didn't have much patience for anyone who did. It was a long time since she'd been around anyone who saw through the various facades she utilized to navigate the world and was just interested in getting to know her—not because of what she looked like or what she could do, but because of who she was. Hell, it had been a long time since anyone she'd flirted with had turned her down in favor of friendship—and really meant it.

Zondra still wasn't sure she believed there was nothing between Chuck and Sarah. Sure, both of them had denied it, but her Spidey-sense was tingling—a reference she knew Chuck would understand. After some initial reluctance, she'd let her inner nerd out of the closet, dropping some subtle references to Mystery Science Theater 3000 (MST3K, to those in the know) and the Twilight Zone episode featuring William Shatner, AKA Captain Kirk. Chuck had been surprised, but delighted. He'd fired some references of his own right back, and their discussion had evolved into a steady Sunday afternoon MST3K marathon, complete with salted and buttered popcorn with a dash of pepper … Zondra's favorite. Sometimes Ellie would even watch with them, rolling her eyes at the way they talked back to the screen.

As much as Zondra enjoyed these sessions, they were also bittersweet. The last time she'd persuaded anyone to nerd out with her in front of the TV, it had been Bryce sitting next to her. She could tell he hadn't been nearly as into the shows as she was, but he'd watched just the same, and she'd treasured those moments when they both reached for the popcorn at the same time and his fingers brushed hers. Then had come the night when they'd both reached into the bag of Jiffy Pop and he'd taken her hand, pulling her toward him, his lips sealing over hers in a kiss that tasted like butter and pepper and desire. They'd kissed for what felt like hours, the bag of popcorn crushed between them, until the credits of the last Twilight Zone episode had rolled and the TV had faded into silence.

After that night, Zondra had thought everything would be different. She'd gone to sleep on the couch with Bryce's arms wrapped around her, feeling warm and loved. But when she'd woken up early that morning, he'd been gone—and when he saw her at lunchtime, he'd given no indication that anything between them had changed. Sure, he still talked to her, still smiled at her—but same way he'd done before, as if nothing between them existed but friendship. Only at night, during their TV marathons, would he turn to her, his kisses heated and his touch urgent.

Zondra had hoped it would be just a matter of time until their relationship found its way out into the open. She could have sworn that what she saw in his eyes in the instant before they kissed each night, what she felt in his touch, was more than simple desire. She couldn't bear to believe she was only a booty call—never mind the lines the Farm fed both of them about not forming attachments or falling in love. Her relationship with Bryce was deeper, built on a hundred private jokes and shared experiences. One day he would surely acknowledge that.

Days had passed, then weeks, but nothing changed. She should have turned him away, should have made him talk about it—but she'd been afraid of losing him. In short, she'd been a coward. Out of pride, she'd let him believe she wanted what he wanted. She'd let him use her, never admitting she felt anything more for him—and then they'd left the Farm, been assigned separately, and it hadn't mattered anymore.

She'd done her best to put Bryce Larkin out of her mind. But to admit to Sarah that she still loved him—man, it had surprised her as much as Walker to hear that come out of her mouth. It was embarrassing. The last thing she wanted to do was have feelings for another guy who didn't want her; she'd rather have Chuck's genuine friendship than some kind of fake, one-sided relationship. And if that friendship came with an affinity for Tribbles and radioactive spiders, so much the better.

Still, part of her wondered what it would be like to date a guy like Chuck—someone without pretenses or artifice, who spoke his mind and treated the people around him like they really mattered. Someone with whom she didn't have to play a mental game of four-dimensional chess before opening her mouth, needing to anticipate what unspoken agenda they might have in mind and speak accordingly. Sometimes when she sat on the couch with Chuck, mocking the over-the-top acting in the original Star Trek series, she couldn't help but wonder what if—

Well, it didn't matter. She was here to work, to protect Chuck … especially after Sarah'd shared what she did about the threat on his life. No matter what Graham or Beckman told her to do, she couldn't imagine herself carrying it out. But danger lurked everywhere, and she needed to stay vigilant. It'd been quiet since the night Casey and Chuck had taken their spectacular fall into the Grande Seville's pool, but that did nothing to reassure her. In fact, it made her uneasy. One thing life as a spy had taught her was that calm such as this usually presaged an impressive storm.

That storm blew into the empty Wienerlicious in the form of John Casey, who flung the door open, stomped inside, and announced without preamble, "We have a problem."

She set her cloth and spray bottle down on the table she was in the midst of wiping. "What do you mean?"

Casey had something in his hand; he set it on the counter and stepped aside so she could see. Abandoning her task, Zondra walked over to get a closer look. It was a bug, and not one of Casey's.

"Chuck found that in the Buy More," Casey said, his lips a thin line. "Assumed it was something I'd planted. Insulting, really. The thing was right out in the open. An amateur job. But it was there—and I'd bet anything that means there are others."

Grimly, Zondra poked the thing, turning it over. "You're right," she said, going behind the counter to turn the temperature down on the fryer. The next batch of overly greasy fries would just have to wait. "We have a problem."

Casey video-conferenced Graham and Beckman, providing a bare-bones explanation of what had transpired, as Zondra went to lock the door of the Wienerlicious, flip the sign to 'closed,' and pull the shades. By the time she got back to the hidden monitors—located next to the restaurant's cash register—both of her bosses were on screen, Beckman sitting at her desk with Graham standing behind her left shoulder.

"Ah, Agent Rizzo," Beckman said as she came to stand next to Casey. "As I was about to tell Major Casey, the bug Chuck found is a GLG-20, one of the most advanced counter-espionage listening devices in the CIA arsenal."

Zondra's heart sank. "This is a CIA design?" Unless the technology had been stolen, that meant it was an inside job—which, in turn, probably meant Fulcrum.

"Hmmm," Casey said, his voice somewhere between unsurprised and smug. "Figures."

"The GLG-20 uses a low-power transmitter, in order to avoid detection. It has a maximum range of about 20 yards," Graham said, sounding methodical as usual.

"Which means there's probably a receiver hidden somewhere inside the Buy More," Beckman said—an unfortunate conclusion to which Zondra had already come.

Graham looked grim—well, grimm_er_. "We believe it's recently become a favorite of the Fulcrum agents."

Casey's big hands gripped the counter, his knuckles whitening. "So you're telling us the secret government cabal that abducted Bryce Larkin and came within a hair of figuring out that Chuck's the Intersect … is now skulking around the Buy More?"

The NSA agent cared about Chuck. Zondra was sure of it. Here was hoping that Beckman and Graham couldn't hear that in his voice—that all they heard was the determination of a government-trained assassin gathering the information he needed to do his job.

"We need you to locate that receiver and find the person who planted it," Graham said, his beady gaze fixed first on Casey and then Zondra.

Beckman's voice was determined. "You have forty-eight hours. If you cannot identify the enemy operative in that time, we will have no choice but to relocate Chuck to a secure government holding facility."

A bunker, they meant. They were talking about bunkering Chuck. And if they did that—if they made him disappear—it was only a matter of time until his life became forfeit.

Zondra struggled to keep her face expressionless as Graham spoke. "Bartowski's time as a civilian may be coming to an end. For their own safety, his family may never see him again." The call disconnected, leaving Zondra and Casey standing in shocked silence.

Two days. They had two days to make things right.

Chuck was the first friend Zondra had had in a long time. For his sake, and her own, she couldn't let him down.

"Let's go," she said to Casey. "The Wienerlicious will just have to do without me for the next few hours. We need to figure out the most thorough way to sweep the Buy More. We can't miss a thing. Chuck's freedom—and maybe even his life—depend on it."

OoOoOoOoO

Sarah had a lot to do. She needed to check out of the hotel, find her way to the closest safe house with Bryce, figure out how much she could safely tell Chuck, and plan a bank robbery. In preparation for all of this, she and Bryce had talked for hours after their conversation with Graham, devising and revising plans. Even though it was midday, she was exhausted. She'd abandoned Bryce's crappy faux-Keurig brew for a Venti black coffee with two shots of espresso from the corner cafe, which she'd guzzled like a runner gulping Gatorade at the end of a marathon—and then ordered another. Her hands were shaking again, but she couldn't tell if it was from nerves, adrenaline, or too much caffeine. Maybe all three.

She was tossing her makeup case into her packed bag when her phone buzzed. Grabbing for it, she saw it was a message from Casey—which couldn't be good. The NSA agent was a strictly utilitarian communicator. Her heart picked up pace, starting to pound, as she sank into the chair by the small wooden table and opened the email.

What popped up first was a photo of a short-range bug … a GLG-20—CIA-issued from the look of it. Beneath the image, in his typical laconic fashion, Casey had written:

_Bartowski found this at the Buy More. Not one of mine and most likely not the only one we'll find. Might be time to visit Dutch and hit the road. I'll keep you posted.  
_

Staring at the screen, Sarah enlarged the image of the bug. Had someone planted these throughout the Buy More? If so, there was only one explanation: Fulcrum was zeroing in on their target—at least, they thought they were. It was Tommy Delgado's and Bryce's last known location … but what happened when they found Chuck Bartowski instead? He was the real target.

"Shit, shit, shit," she muttered, fingers itching with the desire to load up the Porsche and speed down the highway. Instead, she texted Bryce.

_Can you come upstairs? It's urgent.  
_

Five minutes later, a knock sounded on her door. She checked the peephole to be sure it was him, then opened it and let him in.

"You okay?" he said, sounding as tired as she felt. He was in jeans and a green t-shirt, his hair mussed as if he'd been running his hands through it.

"Not really. Here." Sarah thrust her phone at him.

He read the message, then arched an eyebrow. "Visit Dutch? What is he talking about?"

"Never mind that part," she said, trying and failing to control the anxiety in her voice. "Fulcrum's bugging the Buy More, hunting down the Intersect, and I'm stuck here. What are we going to do?"

Handing her phone back to her, Bryce thought for a moment. "Looks like you're heading to Burbank. As for me, I'm going to rob a bank. Maybe I'll ask Jackson if he has any ideas. I trust him. He's a kindred spirit."

Sarah tossed the phone onto the table. Going back to Burbank was all she'd ever wanted—but not at the expense of Bryce's safety. "You'd be okay with that—with me going and leaving you to figure all this out? We're partners, Bryce. We're supposed to stick together."

He took her by the shoulders, his fingers warm through the fabric of her shirt. "We're supposed to have each other's backs. Right now, for you, that means helping you protect the people you care about. Just do me a favor—make sure Chuck and Sandra stay safe, will ya?"

Before she could say another word, he let her go and slipped out of the room as quickly as he'd come.

OoOoOoOoO

It was six o'clock, and Chuck's shift was over. Just one more thing to do, and he'd be out of the Buy More … and hunting Casey down, to get a handle on what the hell that bug had been doing out in the open. The more Chuck thought about it, the more he was sure something out of the ordinary was going on.

In the meantime, he had an important mission to oversee. Hiding the government's secrets in his brain was one thing—at least in that case, he had backup. Protecting his sister's engagement ring in his locker was, at the moment, far more terrifying. How would he ever explain it if that ring went missing? Sure, Awesome probably had it insured, but that wouldn't make up for the devastation of losing a priceless heirloom. Chuck knew firsthand—he felt the same way about Sarah's bracelet.

There was only one solution: Get a better security system. Chuck had snuck over to Large Mart on his break and purchased the biggest, most-impervious-to-damage Master Lock he could find. He fished it out of his satchel, tossed the old one—which looked like a tinker toy in comparison—into the trash, and snapped the new one into place. Stepping back, he admired it: Silver, gleaming, and so solid, it looked like it would require Semtex or C-4 to destroy. It was the John Casey of locks, and worth every penny.

Twenty-four hours. That was all he needed. What could go wrong?

Whistling, Chuck slipped the key onto his keychain, gave his new lock one last appreciative glance, and went home for the night.

* * *

As always, we want to know what you think! Please leave a review.

.


	12. Overwatch

Chapter Twelve … in which Sarah makes an impulsive decision, Ellie loses something she didn't know she had, and Chuck faces a choice that has heart-wrenching consequences.

This chapter is the turning point in our story. The chapters that follow will set the scene for what we had planned from the beginning—what a lot of you have asked for.

Disclaimer: We don't own Chuck…

* * *

**Chapter 12: Overwatch  
**

As Sarah traveled south on the 5, heading for Burbank, the 300-mile stretch of road gave her plenty of time to think about what her next moves and countermoves needed to be. Fulcrum was closing in, and if that wasn't bad enough, the government already had plans in place to get rid of Chuck—either with a bullet to his head or by jailing him for the rest of his life. There'd be no due process. No … nothing. He'd just cease to exist—along with her, most likely. Their time had run out and she had a little over four hours to solidify a decent plan of action.

Luckily, Casey had already done most of the heavy lifting for her—escape routes, safe houses, emergency contacts, and brand-new identities. They could disappear … poof—just like that, they'd be gone. She'd lived on the run before; it was old hat for her. She'd adjust. But what about Chuck? He had friends, family, a home—everything she'd always dreamed of. What would it cost him to lose all of that? _Hell_, what would it cost her?

She'd thought of nothing else since she'd seen Casey's email. The night before, after she and Bryce had gotten squared away at the closest safe house they both trusted, she'd sent Chuck an invitation to chat. As soon as they'd said their hellos, he'd launched into a rambling tirade about the bug he'd found at the Buy More. His irritation with Casey had quickly turned to panic when she'd shared the contents of the NSA agent's not-so-subtle warning to her.

"He thinks it might be one of Fulcrum's? No wonder he didn't want to talk about it. He couldn't. At least not right then—not to me." Chuck had paused, then gasped as the realization hit him. "Oh my God, Sarah. They could know who I am … or even where Ellie and I live."

"Relax, Chuck. Don't freak out," she'd said, sitting cross-legged on the borrowed bed. "We don't know anything for sure yet. The Buy More still needs to be thoroughly swept for more bugs, should there be any, _and_ we need to find the receiver. That's the key. Find the receiver and your identity's still safe."

He'd run a hand through his hair, adorably mussing his curls. "And if we can't find the receiver?"

"Then," she'd said, drawing a determined breath, "we'll figure it out together."

His expression of consternation had faded, replaced by cautious excitement. "What? Do you mean … are you coming … home?"

As stressed out as she was, Sarah couldn't help but feel elated at the hopefulness in his voice. "First thing in the morning. Things've changed with our mission parameters—we've been ordered to go dark."

He'd opened his mouth to interrupt, but she'd held up a finger, silencing him. "I'll tell you all the details when I see you—it's important—but first I need to help Bryce finish setting up a temporary base of operations and plan for what could happen while I'm gone. But I swear it, Chuck, at first light, I'm heading your way."

Silence had fallen on the other end of the phone. Then a mischievous smile had lit Chuck's face. "So … what are you wearing?"

Despite the gravity of the situation, Sarah had had to laugh. Only Chuck could inject levity into a life-or-death situation and make Sarah lose focus along the way. "God, Chuck. Really?" she'd said, rolling her eyes. "Concentrate. This is serious."

His gaze had grown soft, drifting over her face. "I know it is. But Sarah? If you're coming home—no matter what—everything'll be okay. Can't I be just a little excited to see you?"

As the miles rolled by and the exit for Modesto faded into the distance, Sarah reflected on the rest of their conversation. When she'd said "we'll figure it out together," what she'd really meant was, they'd probably have to run. It hadn't taken long for that revelation to dawn on Chuck—and when it had, he'd grown silent, his expression becoming more morose by the second.

"I guess I always knew this could happen one day," he'd said at last. "And I know how lucky we are that Casey set us up the way he did. But, Sarah … are you sure this is the only way?"

Remembering his pleading tone, she rolled the window down to let the late January air hit her full in the face. The innocence in his question had reminded her of how different their worlds really were. How was she supposed to tell him that they might have to be on the run for the rest of their lives, their own government constantly chasing them, no way to put down roots or start a family? Chuck's dream of running his own business would go up in smoke. And if the government did catch them—well, what wouldn't the alphabet soup do? Torture them one at a time while the other was forced to watch? Threaten to go after Chuck's family and friends if he didn't comply with whatever they wanted—or just kill them both where they stood? The list was endless—all in the name of national security.

She hadn't been able to bear telling Chuck any of those things. He was brilliant, after all; if he thought about the situation long enough, every possible scenario would eventually occur to him. Instead she'd given him an answer that, while pathetically inadequate, she knew to be true. "We'll just have to wait and see, Chuck. Right now, just concentrate on finding that receiver, okay?"

The exit for Fresno coasted by while she thought about what his response had been. He'd drawn a deep, considering breath. "Wow. This really sucks. Right when I find everything I've ever wanted, something has to come along and muck it all up. It's a freakin' curse … I swear it is. And it looks like I might have to end up missing Ellie's wedding because of it." He'd scrubbed his hands over his face. "Assuming she says yes to Awesome—which I'm sure she will. He really is perfect for her … Did I tell you he came by the store to talk to me? He's planning to ask her soon."

"Really?" Despite the circumstances, a hint of exhilaration had crept into Sarah's voice. Ellie really loved Devon—and he treated her with nothing but kindness and respect. They were the only functional role model for an adult romantic relationship that Sarah had ever seen. "He told you he was going to ask her?"

"Hell, Sarah … he asked for my permission." Chuck's voice had caught. "Asked me to keep his great-grandmother's ring safe for him until he was ready. Said Ellie could smell diamond if he kept it in the house. And man, that ring. What a rock. Absolutely gorgeous. Makes my mom's charm bracelet look like something you'd win at the county fair."

It had been Sarah's turn for her voice to catch. Tears had welled in her eyes, and her fingers had gone instinctively to the charm bracelet. "Don't you dare say that, Chuck. This is the most incredible gift anyone has ever given me. Nothing else even comes close. I don't care if it's worth ten dollars or ten million. It's precious to me." She'd drawn a deep breath, then smiled through her tears. "It's my precious."

"Ha-ha, that's really great." Amusement flickered across Chuck's face. "Did you just make a Gollum reference? Someone's been watching some of my suggestions."

"I've watched everything you sent me. I love that you've let me into your life, Chuck." She'd swallowed hard. "I just hate that what I've brought into _your_ life has caused you so much pain."

His eyebrows had drawn down in puzzlement. "What are you talking about?"

"Isn't it obvious? You've given me nothing but honesty, love, and kindness—and enough pop culture insight that I'm not _entirely_ clueless." Wiping her eyes, she'd forced a smile. "And what have I brought you? Death threats, bloodshed, and bombs. I think it's pretty clear who's getting the better end of this deal."

When Chuck spoke again, his voice had been gentle, but pointed. "We'll just have to agree to disagree. I thank Bryce every day for sending me that email. Without it, we would've never met. But, Sarah, before you, Ellie was everything to me. My whole world. Other than Morgan, she's the only person who's always stuck by me, no matter what. My _only_ family. The idea of having to desert her like this—to miss her wedding ... She's probably expecting me to give her away, for Christ's sake. God only knows where our dad's at. And I know she'd want you to be in the wedding too."

"Really?" Sarah's voice had cracked.

"Of course. She loves you. And she knows how much you mean to me."

She'd shaken her head, letting the full measure of her incredulity show on her face. "I could live for a thousand years and not deserve you, Chuck Bartowski."

"Well, Ms. Walker," he'd said, a trace of humor creeping back into his voice, "if you'd care to express your appreciation in person tomorrow, utilizing a variety of innovative skills and methods, I won't complain."

"You have a one-track mind, you know that?" She'd reached for the phone, tracing the shape of his face on the screen. "Quit trying to distract me. I care about Ellie too. Other than Zondra and Carina, she's the only female friend I've ever had. I hate the thought of missing her wedding. Even more, I hate the thought of being the reason you miss it."

"Sarah, this isn't your fault—"

"If we have to run, I'll need to talk to her first. She deserves to hear it from me—why the one person who swore to protect her brother might end up having to take him away forever, to keep that promise." Her voice had broken.

Chuck had tried to reassure her, to talk her down, but it hadn't worked. Guilt had gnawed at her, visceral and overwhelming. Even now, as the Porsche ate up the miles, she could still feel it. She wanted nothing more than to call Ellie up as soon as Devon popped the question and congratulate her—but how could she, when she might be taking Chuck away from her forever? How could she tell Chuck's only family that the only way Sarah could keep him safe might mean Ellie'd never see her little brother again?

The exit for Bakersfield came into her line of sight just as a semi-truck pulled in behind her and she signaled, changing lanes. Just another hour and a half to Burbank. Soon, she would be in Chuck's arms and, for a few hours at least, they could just be together. The future loomed large, indecipherable and terrifying, but as long as she had Chuck, she had hope. Between his brilliance and her knowledge of how the government operated, surely to God they could figure it out.

Holding tight to that last bit of faith, she gunned her Porsche and headed for home.

OoOoOoOoO

Where the hell was everybody?

Chuck stood in front of Casey's apartment, his fist raised to knock for the third time. He'd woken up anxious about what the day might bring—a situation that hadn't improved when neither Casey nor Zondra were around to escort him to work.

He could hear Casey's voice echoing in his head. "It's SOP, moron—you either ride with one of us, or we follow you. No exceptions." He knew he'd remembered to tell them both that he wasn't on call for the next few nights and didn't have a Herder at his disposal. So where the hell were they?

He couldn't imagine they'd just abandon him. Had something happened—were they in danger? Or was there some kind of secret mission in the works … something that, yet again, they hadn't felt comfortable sharing with him?

Either way, the end result was the same—if he didn't call a cab right now, he was going to be late. Sarah was on her way, but he still wanted to do what he could. He needed time to find the receiver—which was rapidly evaporating as he stood in his courtyard _sans_ ride. Exasperated, he looked up the number of a nearby taxi company and dialed.

Ten minutes later, the cab pulled up and Chuck settled into the back seat, vacillating between irritation and concern. He kept waiting for his phone to buzz with some kind of update, but it never happened—and when they got to the Buy More, the driver couldn't even pull into the parking lot. Police tape blocked the entrance, and blue-and-white flashing lights colored everything.

Chuck's stomach flipped as he paid the cabbie and stepped out of the car. First Zondra and Casey were AWOL, and now the Buy More was surrounded by cops? This couldn't be a coincidence.

A uniformed officer stood by the entrance to the parking lot, directing traffic. Chuck walked up to him, doing his best impression of a clueless civilian. "Hey, I'm a supervisor at the Buy More," he said, waving his ID. "Can I go through?"

The officer glanced at Chuck's identification and waved him past the tape without a word. He navigated the parking lot, scanning for Zondra or Casey—but all he saw was Morgan, leaning against the open door frame.

"Hey," he said, relieved to see a familiar face. "What's with the police presence everywhere?"

Morgan gestured at the inside of the store. "They robbed the Buy More, man. They took everything."

"What?" Chuck's eyes snapped wide. A feeling of horror crept over him. As if in slow motion, he turned his head to look. Sure enough, the entire store was gutted. Even the shelves were gone. Only a few empty displays and the Nerd Herd desk remained. "They took everything?" he repeated, even though he could see for himself that this was the truth.

"Everything," Morgan confirmed, his head hanging low.

_Everything. _Which meant—what about Devon's ring? "Oh, please, God, no," he muttered, taking off in the direction of the lockers. "Please be there … please be there …"

He slammed through the doors of the break room. Some of the locker doors were open, gaping to reveal the emptiness within. His wasn't one of them—but his brand-new lock was gone, and when he yanked the door open, sure enough, there was nothing inside.

"The ring," he said, barely able to believe it. "They took Ellie's ring. Oh my God." Slamming the locker door shut, he banged his head into it. He'd had the ring for less than twenty-four hours, and the Buy More got robbed. What were the chances?

Pretty damn good, that was what—because he knew who had done this. Zondra and Casey had cleaned the store out, in the name of finding the bugs and the receiver … taking Devon's ring with them. Could they not have just swept the place? Did they have to take every freaking item in the store? And what the hell was he going to tell Devon?

As if on cue, his phone rang. With a feeling of doom, he yanked it out of his pocket. Sure enough, Captain Awesome's name scrolled across the screen.

"Hey," he managed, his head still leaning on the front of his locker. The metal was cool against his heated skin, but it did absolutely nothing to make him feel better. He couldn't imagine that he'd ever feel better again.

"Chuckles, what's up?" Devon's voice was alarmingly cheerful. "Listen, dude, I figured out how I'm gonna pop the Q."

"The Q? What—what Q? What's a Q?" Chuck said, stalling. He sank into one of the break room chairs, staring at the bank of lockers as if he could will the ring to reappear. Sweat broke out all over his body, the scent harsh and acrid.

"You know, the Q, the big Q you only ask once in a lifetime." Devon sounded impatient. Then his tone shifted, growing louder. "Can't say right now, Mom."

Chuck dropped his head into his hands. Maybe he was losing his mind.

Ellie's voice came through, and suddenly Chuck understood. Maybe Devon was right—his sister really could smell diamonds.

"Is that your mom?" his sister said. "Tell her that I love that 'kittens playing with the yarn' sweater that she knitted me."

Ellie hated that sweater—had in fact made jokes about accidentally catching it on fire. She was lying through her teeth—but Chuck supposed that nerds in glass houses couldn't throw stones.

"You got it, babe. Ha-ha-ha," Devon said, his laugh so fake, Chuck couldn't imagine how Ellie could fail to see through it. He'd finally found something Captain Awesome did badly: Lie. Seemed like it was the order of the day today.

"Okay, she's gone. I'm gonna do it while we're skydiving." Devon's voice was a whisper.

"Really?" Chuck said to the inside of his palms. The whole situation felt so surreal. Maybe he was still dreaming—that was something to hope for. "Do you think, uh … Do you think that's a good idea?"

"Not the first time we've been in the mile-high club, buddy, if you know what I mean."

_Seriously? _This was Chuck's sister he was talking about. "Yeah, uh, listen, skydiving … skydiving is a little—a little risky," he said, trying to dismiss the images that Devon's unfortunate confidence had introduced. "Don't you think? I mean, you could drop the ring."

That was the best he could come up with—drop the ring? The ring that was currently missing—which Chuck hadn't had the guts to tell Devon? He dug his nails into his scalp, wincing in frustration. But what else could he have said? He'd had to come up with something to delay Devon's proposal. Maybe with a little time—and the assistance of some highly-trained friends—he'd be able to track the ring down before Devon came up with a new plan to—dear God—pop the Q.

"Whoa, good call, dude." There was a thump, as if Devon had knocked something over. "I'd hate to lose my great-granny's ring. She gave it to me right before she passed. You know? She knew Ellie was the one before I did."

Guilt settled over Chuck like a shroud. "Great, great, okay," he said, trying not to sound as miserable as he felt. "So … just let me know when you figure something else out."

"Okay."

"But, Devon, um … Take your time. If this is the only time you're ever gonna, um, pop the Q—which I hope it is, of course it will be…" He gripped his curls even harder in an effort to stop rambling. "What I'm trying to say is, I know you want it to be perfect for Ellie. No rush, right?"

"You got it, brother. See, I knew you had sage wisdom to offer. Thanks for hanging onto the ring for me."

"No problem," Chuck said, and disconnected the call. He leaned forward to bang his head on the table, hit it harder than he'd anticipated, overbalanced, fell back in his chair, and hit the floor.

OoOoOoOoO

With an eerie sense of déjà vu, Sarah slid the Porsche into the same spot she'd parked in when she and Ellie had broken into Casey's apartment. Echo Park was just ahead and from the cars outside, she could see that while it looked like Ellie and Devon were home, Zondra and Casey's cars were both gone, just as she'd suspected. That meant Chuck was already at work—and safe, for the time being—but she'd need his help to disable the courtyard's security long enough for her to grab the strongbox out of the NSA agent's apartment. She didn't consider it breaking and entering this time; when he'd sent her that email, Casey had all but given her permission.

Pulling her phone out of her purse, she made the connection through Chuck's app. He answered immediately, like he was expecting the call.

"Sarah?" he said, sounding breathless. "Thank God. It's gone … everything's gone."

She leaned back against the seat, closing her eyes. "Slow down, Chuck ... What are you talking about? What's gone?"

"The store's been completely gutted. Nothing's left. Even the fixtures. Police are everywhere." His voice dropped, as if he didn't want to risk being overheard. "And Devon's grandmother's ring? Oh, yeah … that's gone too."

Sarah couldn't help but feel a particular pang at the loss of the ring that Devon planned to use to ask Ellie to marry him. If someone had stolen Chuck's mother's charm bracelet, she would've been devastated—mission or no mission. This was why the Farm cautioned their agents against forming attachments—love made you prioritize things differently. It made you take risks, and not the type the CIA preferred—measured, well-thought-out, carefully strategized. For love, she realized as she sat outside an apartment in a city she wasn't supposed to be in, about to execute a plan that went against all her training, people would do anything.

She didn't care. It was worth it. But right now she was grateful for her training, which would allow her to compartmentalize, pushing her feelings aside long enough to help them both survive.

"Take a deep breath," she told Chuck, opening her eyes and tracking the progress of a red-haired mother and toddler as they crossed the street. "I'm sure they've just taken everything to a clean location so they can thoroughly search for more bugs. They have to find the receiver too and review anything it might've picked up. Can't take any chances with your safety. We have to know for sure your cover's not blown."

The toddler dropped his teddy bear into the road and started to wail. Without a beat, the mother scooped it up, then swept child and stuffed animal into her arms, cradling them and murmuring soothing words. A pang of envy shot through Sarah. She held fast to the idea that one day, she and Chuck might still be able to have a family—that instead of sitting in her car, staking out an apartment complex in preparation for going on the run, she'd be at the park with Chuck and their kids, pushing a little curly-haired boy on the swings while Chuck chased down their daredevil daughter.

"Who's with you?" she said, watching the mother set her son down safely on the sidewalk and then turning her head away. _Mission first. Dreams later.  
_

"That's the thing." Despite her admonishment to calm down, panic was still clear in Chuck's voice. "Casey and Zondra are MIA. Had to take a cab to work. No shows—both of them. What should I do now?"

So much for Zondra keeping Chuck safe. A frisson of annoyance coursed through Sarah—it was just happenstance that Chuck was okay. With both Casey and Zondra off bug-hunting, who was supposed to be looking after him? Or had they both conveniently forgotten that he was supposed to be their top priority?

"Stay where you are," she told him. "I'm at your apartment complex, about to grab our pre-paid tickets out of town. After I have what we need, be ready. We might not have much time."

This time, Chuck did suck in a deep breath. "So this is it. It's time to run."

"Not quite yet. Let's see if they find the receiver—then we'll know for sure if you and your family are in danger."

"More danger, you mean." His voice was dangerously quiet.

"Yes, more danger," she conceded. "But no matter what—I'm not going anywhere. This has been my personal Rubicon, Chuck. It's taken me far too long to figure out what I should've known from the start: My place is—and has always been—by your side. I'm so sorry for that."

"You don't owe me an apology." She could hear love in his voice now, and that optimistic strength she'd come to rely on. "We Bartowskis never look back if we don't have to. All that matters is that we're together now."

Letting his love warm her, she stretched, readying herself. "Well, Mr. Bartowski, can you do me a favor and work your magic on Echo Park's systems while I grab a few things? Shouldn't take me more than ten or fifteen minutes. If I get hung up, I'll let you know. If all goes well, I should be on your porch in a little over half an hour, tops."

"Of course I can. But, Sarah …" His voice trailed off. "I'm not ready to disappear."

What could she say? "No. I know."

Those gorgeous brown eyes of his were filled with such grief. It killed her that she'd played a role in putting that expression on his face. All she wanted was to bring him happiness, and instead, she'd come into his life dragging all her baggage and giving him some more of his own. She vowed right then and there to spend the rest of her life making it up to him.

"Look, I need you to talk to Ellie if you see her at the apartment and tell her that … I don't really know what to tell her." He looked up … paused—then shook his head. "Just say something that will make it okay, that will make her feel all right. Make sure she knows how much I love her. You can do that, can't you?"

"I—"

"Of course you can." He gave her the smile she loved so much. "You're Sarah. You can do anything."

There he went again, with that ridiculously misplaced faith in her. She would be worthy of it one day, she swore—no matter what it cost her.

"And, hey, there's a silver lining to this thing too, you know?" She could tell he was forcing the positivity into his voice. It was so typically Chuck—trying to find the best in every situation—that her throat grew tight. "Now, we won't be separated by hundreds of miles anymore. Maybe we can even go out on a real date—show everyone how we really feel about one another."

He'd conveniently left out the fact that they wouldn't be around anyone who knew them, or could remark on how amazing they were together—but he was trying, and Sarah gave him a world of credit for that. "I accept," she said, returning his smile. "But for now—Chuck? The systems?"

"Ah, yeah. Of course. I've got you. Give me five minutes. And Sarah? I love you."

"I love you too, Chuck. I'll see you soon."

The call disconnected and she sat there, watching the time tick by on her phone. Then she tugged the edges of that godforsaken black wig to make sure it was straight before she got out of the car.

The courtyard was deserted. She slipped quietly around to Casey's back door, picked the lock, and slid inside. Now that she knew what she was looking for, it took only minutes to open the safe, extract the strongbox, double-check that the contents were still inside, and close everything up again. She dropped the box into the oversized purse she'd slung across her shoulder. Then she glanced through a gap in Casey's blinds into the courtyard to make sure the coast was clear—and froze. Ellie stood in the courtyard, alone, mere feet from the NSA agent's front door.

This was Sarah's chance to keep her promise. Pulse pounding, she took hold of Casey's doorknob and stepped outside to meet her fate.

OoOoOoOoO

Usually, after Chuck talked with Sarah, he felt better—even if whatever tricky situation he was in remained unchanged. But today, with Ellie's ring missing, the Buy More cleaned out, and he himself on the verge of going on the run—never to see his friends and family again—he just felt sad and on edge. In a daze, he disabled the surveillance to his apartment's courtyard and wandered out through the break room doors.

His job responsibilities at the Buy More were the last things on his mind. But when he made his way into the empty store, Big Mike had all of the employees standing in a lineup. Next to him hovered a man in a jacket and tie whose whole attitude screamed 'police.'

"Detective Conway here is convinced that this is an inside job," Big Mike said, pacing in front of the staff. "And we intend to get to the bottom of this."

_Good luck_, Chuck thought just as Big Mike caught sight of him. "Bartowski, get over here!" his boss snapped. "You're a suspect too. You all are."

Resigned, Chuck took his place in the middle of the line. Big Mike glowered at him. "Bartowski, where's Casey? Don't you two usually carpool together?"

Where was Casey, indeed? "Yes. Yes, sir, we absolutely do. But, uh, not today."

"Why don't you go find out why his ass is so tardy? Someone might find that suspicious," Big Mike said, with a significant glance at Conway.

"Sure, I can do that." Honestly, nothing would please Chuck more. "I'll just … I just have to make—" He held up his phone and walked out of the queue toward the front of the store, dialing Casey's number.

The NSA agent answered on the third ring. "What?" he snapped.

"Where are you? Mike's looking for you."

"Well, he's gonna be looking for both of us." Casey sounded more annoyed than usual. "Get down here. We need you."

Seriously? "No, no, no. Listen to me. Please tell me you guys were the ones who cleaned out the Buy More last night. Everything's gone, including my sister's ring, the one she's supposed to wear forever, even though she doesn't know it yet. Awesome is supposed to propose to her, he trusted me and now it's gone." Chuck knew he was babbling, but he couldn't seem to help himself.

Casey grunted. "Save it for your coffee klatch, Bartowski. Get down here. We got bigger fish to fry."

Before Chuck could protest, the phone went dead.

OoOoOoOoO

As soon as Sarah stepped out of Casey's apartment, Ellie glanced up, wide-eyed. "Sarah? What the hell? What are you doing coming out of John's…?"

Chuck's sister was wearing her scrubs—she must've just come from a shift at the hospital, which meant she was probably exhausted. Maybe Sarah should save her bad news for another time—

No, she shouldn't. More accurately, she _couldn't. _This might be the only chance she got. Steeling herself, she stepped forward.

"Please let me explain," she said, doing her best to meet Ellie's eyes. How was she possibly going to pull this off? She'd only just managed to find her way back into Chuck's sister's good graces. Now Ellie would never forgive her.

Always a quick study, Ellie glanced from Sarah to Casey's apartment and back again. "You came back for the box we found in his apartment, didn't you? The one with all the money and the passports and stuff for you and Chuck. Which means—?"

Sarah swallowed hard. "That I need to talk to you. Do you have a minute?"

"Sure." Ellie pointed at the fountain. "Is here fine?" She caught sight of Sarah's face, and worry swept her expression. "Or … not."

"I'm sorry. This is too exposed." Chuck had disabled the courtyard's surveillance, but who knew how long that would last? Not to mention, someone could walk into the courtyard at any time—or Devon could decide to take out the trash, and then what? "My car," Sarah said, nodding her head towards the courtyard's entrance. "Do you mind?"

Ellie shook her head, looking wary. They walked out to the street together. Sarah's mind was racing—what could she say that would make this all right? She'd promised Chuck … he had faith in her. The thought of letting him down was soul-crushing.

Ellie finally broke the silence. "Is it Chuck? Is he okay?" Her voice trembled.

"He's fine." Sarah did her best to sound soothing. "And I intend to make sure he stays that way."

"That's good," Ellie said, reaching out to squeeze Sarah's hand. "Other than Devon, he's all I've got. If something happened to him, I don't know what I'd do."

They'd reached the Porsche; Sarah unlocked it and went around to the driver's side. She drew a deep breath as Ellie settled into the passenger seat.

"Ellie," she said, both hands gripping the wheel, "I hope you know I would do anything to protect Chuck. What I have to tell you may be hard to hear, but please know the decision might not wind up being mine. If there was any other way I could keep him safe, I would do it in a heartbeat. I know what he means to you."

Chuck's sister swiveled to face Sarah, alarm stamped all over her face. "Just spit it out. What are you trying to say?"

This was it—do or die. "Chuck and I," Sarah bit out, "we might have to run."

"Run? What do you mean—run?" Ellie's hand came up and twined in her hair, a gesture Sarah had seen her make when something was bothering her.

"I mean … we might not have a choice." She stole a glance at Ellie, who was staring back at her, looking appalled. "Things have recently gotten very complicated for both of us. He might be in danger from every corner. I'm still hoping it'll end up being okay, but if it's not, running could be our only option."

"The CIA—they didn't tell you to come back, did they." It wasn't a question.

"No. I'm not even supposed to be here. Bryce and I—we were ordered to go dark, which means going off the radar in every possible way. No phone calls in or out, no emails, no formal communications of any type. Total blackout." No longer brave enough to look at Ellie, she stared straight ahead, through the windshield. "The good news is, that gives me the freedom to be more proactive where Chuck is concerned. The bad news is—and I shouldn't even be telling you this; I'm risking your life and breaking all kinds of rules by sitting here with you right now, but—the new Intersect is coming online soon. And once it does, they won't need Chuck anymore. He'll be a liability in their eyes."

"Why stop now?" Ellie said when she paused. "You're on a roll."

"Well," Sarah said, ignoring the bitterness in Ellie's voice, "on top of all of that, it looks like the Buy More's been bugged. Chuck was the one who actually found the device and took it to Casey. It doesn't look like one of ours. We think it's one of Fulcrum's—they're a rival group that desperately wants to get their hands on the Intersect."

"Of course they do," Ellie muttered, her hands clenching and unclenching in her lap.

"I know you hate Bryce, and for good reason, but he really did try to lead them away from Burbank the last time he was here—to let them believe he had the program. If we can't find the receiver in time, though, Fulcrum could know the truth."

"Which means what?" There was a growling undertone to Ellie's voice. "They'd go after Chuck?"

"Probably. And the bosses won't chance it." Sarah sounded as miserable as she felt. "Beckman and Graham want to bunker Chuck before that happens. He's too valuable an asset to lose … to them. To me—Ellie, he's my whole world. If I lost him..."

"If _you _lost him? You've known him for a handful of months! I raised him, Sarah. Have some perspective here." Ellie's eyebrows lowered. "There has to be something we can do."

That sentence had been echoing in Sarah's head ever since this whole mess began. "We've got plenty of dirt on General Beckham—enough to bring her down if need be. But the Director of the CIA—my boss, Graham—he's a slippery fish. And he's wanted Chuck bunkered from the start … hidden underground, never to see the light of day again. If Chuck becomes no use to them…" She touched Ellie's hand. It was ice-cold, and Ellie flinched away from her, as if Sarah was poison … or as if Chuck's sister saw her for the monster she truly was. "Please don't make me say it, Ellie."

"But—where would you go and when could I see him again?" She'd never heard Ellie sound so plaintive. Usually Chuck's sister was fierce and take-charge, but right then she sounded like a hurt little girl. It tore at Sarah. She would do anything to fix it—but there was so little she could do.

"It's not safe for you to know that, Ellie. And anyhow—we couldn't stay in one place long enough for it to matter. It would be too big a risk." She dug her nails into the steering wheel, bracing herself for what she had to say next. Much as she wanted nothing more than to give Ellie platitudes, she owed Chuck's sister honesty. "If we have to go—I'm not sure when you'd see Chuck again."

Tears began to slide down Ellie's cheeks, though she made no sound. "You mean this could be … forever?"

"I'm so sorry, Ellie." Sarah had to fight to keep her tone level. "I won't have a choice."

Silence descended on the car—a heavy, thick sort of quiet like the calm before a massive storm. It lasted one beat, two, three. Then Ellie spoke, her voice frigid.

"Let me see if I've got this straight. You waltz into my brother's life as part of some secret government operation that he had nothing to do with, other than being in the wrong place at the wrong time. That, and being unlucky enough to cross paths with that asshole Bryce fuckin' Larkin, who destroyed his life and wrecked his hopes and dreams." She spat out Bryce's name as if it was poisonous—or maybe some kind of curse. "Then you turn his whole world upside down, and not in a good way. You intentionally put him in the line of fire and use him like a weapon for the government's agenda, knowing good and well he was falling in love with you."

"Ellie—" Sarah began, but Chuck's sister held up a hand, forestalling whatever she was about to say.

"Then you drag Bryce back into his life _again_, kissing the one person who ruined my brother's life the first go-round in his _own_ _bedroom,_ at a family gathering, no less. You manipulate him into forgiving you … and now you tell me that the only way for you to keep Chuck safe might be to take him away from me _forever_?" She glared at Sarah. "Well, fuck that noise. I forgave you the first time because my brother loves you—and I believed you loved him too … in your own twisted little way. You do what you have to do, Sarah Walker—if that's even your real name. But don't expect me to be okay with it."

Each word Ellie uttered was like a stab to Sarah's heart—all the more so because it echoed her deepest insecurities. She knew she didn't deserve Chuck. She knew he deserved so much more than this. But she'd promised him she would somehow make things right with Ellie, so there was no choice. She had to try.

Feeling as if she was extending a hand to a cobra, Sarah reached out again and touched Ellie's arm. "I know you're angry with me, and I don't blame you. But please just listen to me."

Ellie whirled on her, cheeks red. "Give me one good reason I should."

"Chuck," Sarah said desperately. "He wanted me to talk to you … to tell you how much he loves you. Asked me to somehow to make it okay—to comfort you. I don't know how to do that, Ellie. I'm out of my depth here. Chuck's the first person to ever teach me what that's all about."

Ellie's face softened. "All right—for his sake, I'll listen. When would you leave, if you had to go?"

"Soon," Sarah said, relief coursing through her. "Maybe tonight, even. It all depends on if they find the receiver."

Chuck's sister's shoulders slumped. "Why," she said, her voice flat, "is every option in this scenario such a horrible one? Bunkered … on the run forever … or worse."

"I don't know." Sarah's throat burned. "There's still a chance we'll find the receiver quickly enough that Graham and Beckman might change their minds. But even if they do—I'm still worried about what they'll do to Chuck once the new Intersect's a reality. They won't need him anymore, and what he knows—he'd be too dangerous, too much a risk in their eyes."

For a long moment, Ellie just regarded her. Then she said, "Is there anything I can do to help?"

Sarah suddenly felt impossibly hopeful. The thought of Ellie hating her—and of failing to do what Chuck had asked of her—had been a weight, pressing in on her chest. "Just … forgive him." The words felt as if they were being ripped from her mouth, each syllable a jagged edge.

Her expression incredulous, Ellie leaned back against the door. "Forgive Chuck? He hasn't done anything wrong."

_No—except maybe missing the most important day of your life. And I can't even apologize for that, because you don't know Devon is planning on proposing … not to mention the fact that the ring is AWOL. _"He feels awful about the idea of leaving you. But I want you to know that no matter what you think of me—even if you hate me—" Sarah's voice broke, and she started crying in earnest. "I value his life more than my own. I would never abandon him. All the things you said before—you're right. I've brought nothing but chaos into Chuck's life. He's the most wonderful person I've ever met and I know he's given me so much more than I'll ever be able to give him. All I want is to spend the rest of my life making up for that. Whatever that looks like … whatever it means … there's nothing I want more."

Ellie gave her a hard look. "You know, before Chuck met you, I had a party for him. His birthday party, actually. I invited all of these women from my residency program, hoping one of them would appreciate him for who he is—smart, funny, brilliant, compassionate. And maybe they would have, except Chuck was as awkward as a football bat. He didn't want to come out of his room—and when he did, he had that troglodyte Morgan in tow—" She shook her head. "I know I don't get to choose who my brother loves. But if I could—I'd want someone who could give him what I have with Devon. Common interests. Stability. The push he needs from time to time to get out of his comfort zone—but not this far out of the zone, for the love of God. Like he's playing a bit part in the Bourne Identity or some James Bond flick."

Miserably, Sarah ducked her head. "I know."

"The thing is," Ellie went on, "that's who I'd pick. But it's not up to me. He picked you, Sarah, and now I have to live with that. And the worst part is—before all of this, I liked you. Loved you, even. I have no idea how to reconcile that with what you're telling me right now … that because of what you and Bryce brought into his life, I might never see my brother again."

"I understand." Sarah's voice was smaller than she could ever remember hearing it. "I hope one day you can forgive me."

Silence fell. "Will you tell me?" Ellie said at last. "Or Chuck? I couldn't stand it if you just … disappeared. If this is what has to happen to save his life, then I'll find some way to deal with that. But I want to know."

"I'll do my best," Sarah said. "I promise."

There was a long pause. Then Ellie said, each syllable sharp-edged, "You swore you'd take care of him. I'm holding you to that. If you don't—then whatever these government people are capable of … whatever you think they'd do to Chuck … I swear it will revisit you tenfold."

Before Sarah could think how to reply, Ellie opened the car door, slipped out, and was gone.

OoOoOoOoO

With Ellie's threat still ringing in her ears, Sarah pulled her Porsche into the parking lot behind the Buy More, next to the loading dock. The front entrance was swarming with cops investigating the break-in. Casey and Zondra hadn't been exactly subtle—and then there was Ellie's ring to consider. What a freaking mess.

For a moment she just sat there with the engine idling, trying to get hold of herself before she saw Chuck. She'd done the best she could to fulfill what he'd asked of her, and it hadn't been enough. Try as she might, she couldn't help but hear Ellie saying, _Because of what you and Bryce brought into his life, I might never see my brother again. _She felt as if she'd failed, and she wasn't used to failure.

Worse still, she felt like she might have damaged her relationship with Ellie beyond repair. Sure, none of this was precisely Sarah's fault—she hadn't planted those bugs or threatened Chuck's freedom. But Ellie was right—Sarah was part of the system that had brought this mess into Chuck's life. She felt responsible, if only indirectly. It hurt for Ellie to see Sarah as she sometimes saw herself—a monster who wasn't nearly good enough for Chuck. Ellie had outright said as much: _I don't get to choose who my brother loves. But if I could—I'd want someone who could give him what I have with Devon.  
_

Sarah forced her doubts away, tucked into the corner of her mind where she compartmentalized the unpleasant information she couldn't allow herself to process. All she could do was what she'd told Ellie—spend the rest of her life trying to be worthy of Chuck. And right now, that meant escorting him to the NSA warehouse and watching over him. She tugged off her wig—she wasn't a vain person, but if she was going to see Chuck for the first time in over a month, she wanted to look like herself—and shook out her hair. Pulling out her phone, she opened the app and texted him: _I'm outside, in back.  
_

His response came immediately. _Be right there.  
_

A minute and twenty-seven seconds later (not that Sarah was counting) he appeared on the loading dock. The moment he saw her car, his face broke out in a big grin—that amazing, guileless smile she loved so much. He jumped down from the dock and took off running, totally abandoning any attempt to play it cool.

An answering grin spread across Sarah's face as he yanked open the Porsche's door. "Chuck—" was all she managed to say before he wrapped his arms around her and his mouth came down on hers.

The kiss was a revelation. She could feel all of his love for her—but also his frustration at the time they'd spent apart, his worry about having to run, his fear about what might happen next. No one kissed like Chuck did—or maybe it was just that Sarah had never kissed anyone she'd loved before. She twined her hands in his hair and kissed him back, pulling him as close as the Porsche's gearshift would allow. Breathing in his scent—Tide detergent, the spicy cologne he always wore, and something ineffable that was just him—both steadied her and sent a thrill of excitement through her body.

He pulled away first. "God, I've missed you," he said, cupping her face.

"I've missed you too. More than you can imagine." Her voice was husky.

"Let's never be apart for that long again. It's a terrible idea." He stroked her hair, and she leaned into his touch, reveling in the familiarity of it and the warmth of his skin.

"Okay. I'm on board with that plan." Turning her head, she pressed her lips to his palm. "For right now, though—we need to go. I can't risk being seen here, and we need to get you to that warehouse."

Reluctantly, he drew back. "One day," he muttered, "we won't be in a hurry. Not running from anything or to anything, not managing a crisis. We won't be Intersect guy and CIA ninja. We'll just be Chuck and Sarah. I'll be able to kiss you where I want, when I want, and no one will be allowed to have a problem with it."

She put the Porsche in reverse, trying to envision a world where that was the case—and where they didn't have to spend the rest of their lives in hiding. "Well," she said, willing her voice not to tremble, "maybe no one but your sister."

"You talked to Ellie?" Even though they weren't touching, she felt tension thrum through him. "What did she say?"

Sarah's hand tightened on the gear shift. "I tried to do what you wanted, Chuck. To make it okay with Ellie that we might have to run. But she's your sister, and she loves you more than anything in the world. I think—no, I _know_—she blames me for playing a role in the situation you're in."

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Chuck glance at her. Then his hand closed over hers on the gear shift. "This is _not _your fault, Sarah."

She pulled out of the parking lot and into traffic, endeavoring to keep her voice light. "Did I say it was?"

"No. But you didn't have to. I know what you're thinking, and it's not true. You're the best thing that ever happened to me. Sure, you might've come into my life in an unorthodox way—"

"You can say that again." Try as she might, she couldn't keep the self-recrimination from her tone.

"And I will, as many times as it takes for you to believe me. Ellie is just protective of me. She'll get beyond this. I know she will. It's just … a lot to take in. Hell, I can't really take it all in, and I'm living it. But you've never done anything other than look out for me. Unlike Zondra and Casey, who left me high and dry today."

"That's not true, Chuck. What happened on Thanksgiving—"

Chuck sighed, letting her hand go. "As much as I hated to see that, I think I know why you kissed him back. As dysfunctional as the two of you might have been, he was familiar, and he didn't ask much of you when you were together—right? You weren't taking any risks, being with him. Don't think I don't know that this—_us_—scares the bejesus out of you."

They slowed for a light, and Sarah turned to look at him. His face was serene, his dark eyes fixed on hers. "How are you so damn smart, Chuck? It took me ages to figure that out."

A smile tugged at the corner of his lips. "I dunno. A certain 'awesome' person told me recently that I possess sage wisdom. Maybe I should get a job writing fortune cookies if everything goes to smash and we really have to run."

"Very funny." The light changed, and she shifted into first. "Although I think you'd be great at writing fortune cookies."

"If only my fortune-telling abilities extended to finding Ellie's ring. I tried to ask Casey about it, but he just blew me off. If that ring is lost—or if someone stole it—I don't know how I'll ever be able to explain that to Devon." He rolled down his window, looking out at the passing traffic. "That's what I hate the most about having this thing in my head—the way it affects the people around me. All the innocent bystanders. I mean, here's Devon, wanting to do the right thing by Ellie, trusting me to hang on to his ring. I took that seriously. I even bought a new lock—but I expected it to hold up against normal people, not federal agents. I should've known better."

"We'll find it, Chuck. Don't worry about that. They just took it to search it for bugs. They don't _lose _stuff." She took a left, and the warehouse came into view. "Yes, the timing is terrible, but we'll figure it out."

He gave an un-Chuck-like grunt that could've rivaled Casey's. "We'd better."

Sarah took a hard right into the warehouse's parking lot and scouted it for the most unobtrusive place to park. She couldn't go in with him and risk being seen by any of the agents—but she would be watching.

The warehouse was one of several long, gray buildings; she parked two buildings down, in the shade of a large mesquite tree. The spot gave her the perfect vantage point to have eyes on Chuck until he went inside. She'd keep the engine idling, in case they needed to make a quick getaway.

Twisting, she grabbed the wig from the back seat and slipped it on, glancing in the rearview mirror to make sure it was straight. When she looked over at Chuck, he was smiling, eyes crinkled at the corners. "You look smokin' hot with dark hair," he said. "Of course, I think you'd look good no matter what color hair you had. Or if you had no hair at all. The many faces of Sarah Walker, agent par excellence."

"You're biased." She felt herself blushing.

"Maybe. But that doesn't mean it isn't true." Chuck leaned over and gave her a quick kiss. "Wow! I kinda feel like I'm cheating on you … with you." Grinning, he slid his phone out of his pocket. "I'm gonna text Casey and let him know we're here. Wish me luck."

As they waited for the NSA agent, Sarah reached across the gearshift and took Chuck's hand, interlacing her fingers with his. "We'll get through this," she said softly.

"I know." He squeezed her fingers. "And … here he comes. Battle stations, everyone."

"That's a Star Trek reference—isn't it?" She felt ridiculously proud of herself.

"It is indeed." The smile was back, at a higher wattage this time, like a teacher faced with a star pupil. He disengaged his hand from hers, squaring his shoulders, just as Casey came even with the car.

The NSA agent strode up to the Porsche and bent low, peering in at Sarah, who obligingly rolled down the window. "Nice wig," he said, looking amused.

"Hello to you too, John. Long time no see. And thanks for leaving Chuck to fend for himself. It's not like he's in danger or anything." Sarah didn't bother to keep the sarcasm from her voice.

Casey straightened. "I had my reasons. And he's fine. No harm, no foul. The same cannot be said of what will happen if we don't get our hands on that receiver. Priorities, Walker."

"Chuck is my priority."

"Yeah, well, he's mine too." He nodded at Chuck. "Hey, numbnuts. Got anything to add to the discussion?"

Chuck leaned across Sarah so he could look the NSA agent in the eye. "As a matter of fact, yes. Where the hell is Ellie's ring?"

"Ugh. Will you stop it with the damn ring already? I have no idea. Maybe Zondra has it. For all I know, she thinks you're gonna pop the question." He raised an eyebrow.

Chuck's voice cracked. "She thinks I'm going to—what? To Sarah? But I told her we weren't—"

The eyebrow waggled, and Sarah had to resist the urge to open the car door hard—right into Casey's more sensitive parts. "Or to her, moron. You can ask her when you see her—which can happen as soon as you get moving. Personally, I was more concerned with keeping your ass out of an underground bunker. But by all means, go ahead and indulge your lady feelings about the ring if that's more important to you—as long as you do it while we're walking toward the warehouse." Casey jerked his head toward the building.

"Fine." Chuck yanked his door open and got out. "Stay safe, Sarah. I'll be back as soon as I can."

"I'll be fine." She gave him what she hoped was a reassuring look. Really, she would've loved to kiss him goodbye, but the NSA agent would have a field day with that, strongbox or no strongbox. She'd never hear the end of it. "Casey—watch out for him, and keep me in the loop," she said instead.

Casey grunted in affirmation and took his post beside Chuck as the two of them walked toward the warehouse. Watching them go, Sarah drew a deep breath.

She'd gotten to Burbank. She'd talked to Ellie. She had everything they needed to escape. But the knot in her stomach wouldn't let go.

What happened to Chuck mattered more than anything. He needed her, and she wouldn't let him down. Somehow, she would see this through. Gritting her teeth, she shoved her doubts into cold storage and summoned the determination that had seen her through a hundred missions—the strength that made her the Enforcer and the Ice Queen. Whatever came their way, she would be ready.

Phone in hand, eyes locked on the entrance to the warehouse, she waited for what fate would bring their way.

* * *

A/N: We're sorry for the delay in posting this last chapter. The past few weeks have been very challenging for us. While we still have many hurdles to overcome, we've managed to find the time to finish up this chapter and envision a few ways for this story to progress to the second season—when it all goes to hell. The bad guys will still be the bad guys, but the team will be totally different.

We can go in this direction, with a more AU retelling of season 2—or we can give this story an appropriate conclusion at the end of 'Chuck vs the Marlin.' Our decision will be based off of your interest and feedback. While we appreciate your well-wishes, we'd also love to hear your thoughts and ideas. They really are the strongest motivators for us to continue. If we start the second season, it'll mean around a seventy-chapter story. We want to make sure you—the reader—is on board first. We won't start something we can't finish.

As always, thanks for reading.


	13. Watershed

Chapter Thirteen … in which Chuck faces a multifaceted threat, Sarah confronts her deepest fear, Casey reveals his soft underbelly, and Zondra is forced to take sides.

This chapter is more or less the dying breath of canon for this story. While we'll still reference it from time to time, everything going forward will be mostly original. It's been our plan from the very beginning.

Disclaimer: We don't own Chuck…

* * *

**Chapter 13: Watershed  
**

Zondra held an inventory list in her hand, scanning its contents for the umpteenth time while she paced the warehouse floor like a caged lion. The receiver was nowhere to be found. Without it, Chuck would surely be bunkered, and she'd lose one of the best friends she'd ever had. He didn't deserve that fate. He was kind, funny, understanding, laid back, honest to a fault, handsome as hell—and always looked out for those he loved. She enjoyed spending time with him more than anyone she'd been around in years. Sometimes she was sure her feelings for him went well beyond friendship, a line of thought she tried to choke off just as soon as it tried to flourish. Either way, she couldn't imagine her world without him now, but what could she do? If they didn't find the receiver, his life—for all intents and purposes—would be forfeit.

And then there was the ring they'd found in his locker. It was unmistakably an engagement ring, and a gorgeous one at that. Who the hell was it for? Her heart skipped a beat just thinking about it. She and Chuck were close … but not that close, were they? Could he have hidden feelings for her that she'd somehow missed—to the extent that he was considering asking her to marry him? Or was the ring for Walker, as she sometimes suspected … especially given Chuck's abysmal skills at prevarication?

The ring burned a hole in her pocket as she stood there contemplating Chuck's fate. She needed to know what its purpose was—or its target, at least. What was he thinking? How did he feel?

She guessed the bigger question was, what did she feel? And the short answer to that question—to her horror—was that when she thought about marrying anyone, the image of Bryce Larkin's face popped up in her mind, obscuring everything else. Damn him. Here she was, contemplating the unlikely event that the nicest guy she'd ever met was about to propose ... and getting derailed by thoughts of the one man who'd denied what they had altogether and ghosted her after the Farm.

Well, that was her answer, wasn't it? Even if she did have a crush on Chuck, she still harbored feelings for another man—no matter how badly he'd treated her. Chuck deserved better than what she had to offer.

How could she face him with this ring in her pocket? Was she supposed to just ask him outright who it was for—and what would she say if he said he'd intended it for her? What if he'd never thought of her like that at all, and she was a fool for having the slightest notion that he did? She needed time to get her head screwed on straight. But time wasn't on her side.

As if the spy gods were plotting against her, the warehouse's bay doors opened, spilling in light. Chuck and Casey stood there, silhouetted against the backdrop of the California sun. Chuck blinked, surveying the shrink-wrapped equipment, computers, DVDs, and everything else they'd taken from the Buy More, all being examined by NSA agents who were searching for the elusive receiver. Then his eyes fell on her and he strode in her direction with an unfettered sense of purpose.

He came to a stop in front of her, arms folded across his chest. "So … you guys robbed the Buy More, huh?"

She could tell he was pissed off; it was stamped all over his face. He didn't look anything like a man whose attempt to propose had been thwarted, nor like a guy thrilled to be reunited with his beloved. Whoever that ring was for, it wasn't her.

Embarrassed, she turned around, walking further into the depths of the warehouse. "We didn't have a choice, Chuck."

"No choice? Are you all out of your mind?" He stomped after her, Casey in his wake. "Any idea what's going on at the store right now?"

Zondra actually hadn't given much thought to how the staff of the Buy More would react, walking in this morning to find everything missing. This was her job—plus, when she'd found that ring, she'd been somewhat distracted … to say the least. Of course Big Mike and the rest his crew would have been shocked and appalled. She felt terrible for not even considering the fallout that stripping the store bare would cause Chuck. Maybe she should have warned him, at least—but their orders had said otherwise, and after she'd been ostracized for so long, the last thing she wanted was to go against orders in such an obvious fashion.

She opened her mouth to apologize—but before she could say a word, Casey spoke up from behind her. "That bug you found. It's not one of ours."

"Thanks, Casey." Sarcasm rang clear in Chuck's voice. "I kinda figured that one out on my own."

Zondra came to a halt and turned to face him. "Casey only installs EM-50s. The one you found was a GLG-20. It requires a secondary recording device nearby to collect the data."

Chuck stared back at her, his face blank.

"They're looking for the Intersect," Casey said. "They're looking for you. We found a total of twenty-nine bugs just like it, but we still haven't found the receiver."

Growing awareness dawned in Chuck's eyes. Zondra had seen that expression before, when he had had some kind of revelatory idea. It was one of her favorite expressions of his, actually—pure, uncompromised excitement. Maybe that was part of what drew her to Chuck … that and the fact that he wasn't jaded, the way she, Casey, and Walker were. It had been such a long time since she'd been around anyone who didn't run all of their responses through a filter.

"Twenty-nine bugs?" he said, pulling his laptop out of his satchel. "Wait a second."

He propped the laptop on the closest stack of merchandise and reached into the inner pocket of his jacket, extracting a disk. Sliding it into the laptop's drive, he pulled up a video file and started fast-forwarding through it. Next to them, Zondra could hear Casey shifting his weight impatiently, but the NSA agent didn't interrupt—a sure sign of respect and faith in Chuck's methods. Casey had no patience for wasted time, especially his own.

Chuck seemed to have found what he was looking for. He stilled the image, then started up the video again, pausing in strategic places and counting under his breath. When he got to twenty-nine, he stopped and stared at the screen, shaking his head. It was frozen on the image of a dark-haired girl in a white shirt, wearing what Zondra recognized from professional experience as an insincere smile.

"Who's that?" she asked, puzzled.

"It's the schwarma girl, Lizzie. Look." He started the video again, this time in slow motion. Lizzie turned her back to the Nerd Herd desk as her smile slipped from her face. She walked toward the exit, but before she passed the DVD aisle, Zondra saw her slip something onto a shelf. At this magnification, she couldn't tell what it was … but she'd bet the fancy ring in her pocket that it was one of the bugs. And whatever Chuck had been counting—which must've been Lizzie's appearances at the Buy More—he'd stopped at twenty-nine.

Holy hell. Once again, Chuck had accomplished more than a team of federal agents had, and in a shorter period of time, too.

"Huh," Casey said, sounding nonplussed. "Good job, moron. I'll be damned."

Zondra knew calling Chuck 'moron' was just Casey's way—that the NSA agent even considered it a term of endearment—but every time she heard him say it, she cringed. She wanted to chastise him, but that would look suspect, to say the least. Maybe she could find a casual way to bring it up the next time she and Casey were alone … something that wouldn't make her sound defensive, or as if she cared for Chuck more than was appropriate.

Now, though, she needed to keep things strictly professional. She moved forward to point at the screen just as one of the NSA agents who'd been searching for the receiver—what was his name? Johnson? Jensen?— strode up beside her.

"Agent Rizzo, Major Casey, you might want to take a look at this," Johnson/Jensen said, jerking his head toward the back of the warehouse.

Flanking Chuck, Zondra and Casey followed. Johnson/Jensen came to a stop in front of a bank of monitors, checked to make sure that he had Casey and Zondra's attention, and hit 'play.'

"This is a surveillance tape taken during the robbery," he said by means of explanation.

Zondra blinked, puzzled. All four screens were black.

"There's nothing there," Casey said unnecessarily. "Bad guy disabled the security."

"Wait," the other NSA agent said, holding up a finger. Casey made an aggravated noise low in his throat, but complied.

One of the screens lit up, showing those two idiots—the ones that were always ogling her—at the security panel. "Hey," Chuck said, "that's Jeff and Lester."

"Okay, it's off," Idiot #1 said, fumbling with the front of the panel and then staggering after Idiot #2.

"And … they are apparently drunk." Chuck sounded resigned.

As Jeff and Lester passed from view, the other screens suddenly lit up. Zondra sighed, almost amused. "Oh, look, they've mistakenly turned the camera systems back on." Truly, there was no end to their idiocy. In this case, however, it was working in her favor, so she couldn't complain.

Movement flashed on one of the monitors: A figure clad in black, reaching for—was that a giant fish?—on the wall of Chuck's boss's office. Chuck leaned in closer. "Hang on a second, who's that?"

"That's the spy," Zondra said. And an experienced spy, too it seemed. That thing had probably hung on the wall forever. No one would mess with it. Not only was it ugly, it was huge—and in the boss's office. In short, it was the perfect place to plant the receiver.

Chuck leaned in closer still. "Who's the spy who spies on spies?" he said, almost to himself. "Why would a Fulcrum agent want Big Mike's marlin? That's got to be where the receiver's at." He glanced at Zondra and Casey for confirmation.

On the screen, the Fulcrum agent stilled, as if hearing something—most likely the approach of Tweedledee and Tweedledumber—and then left without taking the fish. Seeing this, Casey shook his head. "Those two dillweeds interrupted an actual robbery in progress."

For once, Zondra beat Casey to the chase. "So, the receiver's still in the fish?"

"Marlin, actually." Chuck pointed at Johnson/Jensen. "You would call it a marlin, right?"

"Yeah," the other NSA agent said—to her or Chuck, or maybe both of them.

As fascinating as a taxonomy debate might normally be, they had—so to speak—bigger fish to fry. "Look," Zondra said, pointing at the screen. Inexplicably, the two members of the Idiot Brigade were removing the fish from the wall. What the hell were they doing? Was it some kind of practical joke? A prank? A dare?

"See?" Chuck said, satisfied. "There you go. My job here is done. You just need to track down where the two drunken pinheads stashed the fish ... marlin … Four-foot marlin. I'm gonna need to stick around here and find my ring." He turned to Zondra. "Please tell me you have it?"

The ring chafed against the lining of Zondra's pocket, an uncomfortable reminder of a conversation she didn't want to have. "Yes, I do, but Chuck … we have some bigger-picture concerns right now, don't you think?" God, she was going to have to talk to him about being bunkered—being taken away from his family and friends, getting shoved underground like he'd committed some kind of crime instead of serving his country with good grace, despite being forced into an impossible situation.

He glared at her. "What could be possibly be bigger than me ruining the chances of my sister getting married?"

His sister. His _sister? _Zondra's heart thudded, blood roaring in her ears as all the pieces fell into place. Chuck wasn't planning on giving the ring to anyone. He was holding it for Devon, until Captain Awesome could ask Ellie to marry him. All of Zondra's worrying and obsessing, her pointless spiraling about what she would do or say if Chuck meant the ring to be hers—not to mention her introspection about Bryce—had been for nothing.

It just figured.

She cleared her throat, forcing herself back to the task at hand. "The missing receiver could contain information indicating that you're the Intersect," she said, glancing at Casey to make sure he didn't drop the proverbial bomb on Chuck without warning. They'd talked about this before Chuck arrived. Zondra was sure that being told he was on the verge of losing his freedom would terrify him—and understandably so. She'd wanted to break the news to Chuck gently—but Casey, of course, had nixed the need for tact. He'd rolled his eyes, wanting to know why Zondra had to drag her 'lady-feelings' into the equation—another phrase she couldn't stand. It was sexist as hell.

Zondra and Walker were both excellent agents, among the toughest and most dedicated she knew—not to blow her own horn. The C.A.T. Squad, despite the fact that there was still a traitor in their midst, was comprised of all female badasses—and then there was Beckham to consider. On a daily basis, Casey didn't exhibit a hint of sexism or prejudice against the female agents he worked alongside. So what was with the stupid 'lady-feeling' references?

With effort, Zondra filed her irritation under 'to be dealt with later,' right next to 'can't stand hearing Casey call Chuck a moron.' She focused on Chuck's face, which bore a peculiar expression—somewhere between annoyance and acceptance.

"Go ahead and say it." His voice was heavy. "Say what you're not saying. It's okay … I already know."

He already knew? How could he? Unless he just surmised—

Time to stop dithering and get the worst over with. Zondra drew a deep breath. "If we don't locate the receiver in the next 24 hours—" she said, and then her nerve failed her. She stalled, trying to find the words.

Casey had no such problem. He shot a glance at Zondra, and then barreled right into the breach. "They'll store you in an underground bunker for so long you'll forget what fresh air smells like."

Chuck shoulders slumped, as if the weight of this situation was too much to bear. All Zondra wanted was to hug him, to apologize, but that would be completely unacceptable. Instead she stood there, glaring at Casey, who shrugged as if to say, _Well, you weren't getting to the point, and someone had to.  
_

Then Chuck straightened up, held out his hand, and fixed his gaze on Zondra. "If that's the case," he said, enunciating each syllable, "then I really need that ring back."

OoOoOoOoO

Her head on a swivel, Sarah sat alone in her car making sure she had all the cardinal points covered. She couldn't afford to miss a thing. If trouble came their way, she needed to be ready. The idea of Chuck being inside the warehouse—a government-controlled facility—without her made her frantic. Right now, he was in the lion's den. Agents could snatch him up without notice and then she'd have to scramble. Sure, Casey and Zondra were watching over him, but her confidence in them had waned.

How could they have left him on his own all day? Even if the receiver was the key to Chuck's salvation, he'd proven more times than she could count that he was a true 'asset' to the team—and not just because of the Intersect he had lodged in his brain. It was folly to leave him behind, knowing he'd have to deal with the aftermath of them clearing out the Buy More. She would never have done that to him … or would she?

Thinking back, she wasn't so sure. After all, she was a different person now—forced to come to terms with her feelings or face losing Chuck forever. How long would it have taken her to declare herself to him if Ellie hadn't witnessed her kiss with Bryce? Months? Years?

The thought still made her cringe. So much wasted time—pretending to pretend.

It had been her specialty before meeting Chuck.

Her thoughts drifted back to her promise to Ellie, which was still weighing heavily on her mind. She'd rather die than fail her family.

Just as she prepared herself to indulge in that notion, her phone rang. Her breath hitched, seeing who it was. Scanning the lot one more time, she activated the recorder on her phone and answered the call.

"Walker, secure," she said, keeping her voice as level as possible.

"Agent Walker," Graham said. "Is Agent Larkin with you?"

Of course, that would be the first thing he'd ask. "No sir. Do you need us both?" God, she was hoping he didn't. Things could get complicated, and quickly.

"That won't be necessary," Graham said, his voice clipped. "This will be for our ears only. Is that understood?"

"Perfectly, sir." Sarah leaned her head back against the seat, breathing an inaudible sigh of relief.

Never one to waste time on niceties, Graham dove right in. "We have an issue back in Burbank. It looks as if your old asset's cover may have been compromised by Fulcrum."

Sarah's heart began to pound, but she didn't say a word. Whatever was coming next couldn't be good.

"We already have an agent on site for his extraction—General Beckman's idea. She seems to think he might still be of some use to us until the new Intersect comes online, a sentiment I don't share. I think it's high time for us to take back operational control of the situation."

Graham sounded as cold and indifferent as if he was talking about the weather, rather than seizing complete control of Chuck's life. It made Sarah want to rip his head off. She clenched her fists, digging her fingernails into the palms of her hands. Through a miracle, none of the rage she was feeling echoed in her reply. "I understand. What are my orders, sir?"

"I need you to get there as soon as possible and 'relieve' the agent onsite of the asset once he's taken him. Bartowski's too dangerous to be left alive and we don't have time to bring this to committee. I don't care how you do it, but no body or proof of death for this one, agent."

As angry as Sarah was, she was also jubilant. Graham had just ordered her to kill Chuck—leave no trace—and thanks to her recording, she had proof. This was what she and Chuck had been waiting for…dirt on Graham that they could use to take him down. But first she needed to play along, no matter how disgusting she found the notion.

"Sir, why are we not using Major Casey or Agent Rizzo for this?" she said as neutrally as possible. "Wouldn't they be better tasked for this op? I'm four or five hours away. What if I don't get there in time?"

Squeezing the wheel to channel her anxiety, she waited for his response. After a long moment, it came—both more disturbing and more satisfying than she could've imagined.

"I have complete faith in your abilities, Agent Walker. But to answer your question, the agents in Burbank cannot know anything about this. I need you to make it look like a Fulcrum hit."

Jackpot.

"How can making it look like Fulcrum help us?" Sarah said, wanting to make him spell it out. The more explicit he was willing to be, the more evidence she'd have to blackmail him and hold him at bay—or take him down completely.

Graham didn't disappoint. "If Fulcrum's responsible for taking out Bartowski, funding for our little project will increase tenfold. With Bartowski off the playing field, the powers that be will have no choice but to see our point of view. Fulcrum's threat is real, no matter whether the bureaucrats in Washington can see it or not. We don't have the time to wait around for them to catch up."

Sarah's whole body flamed. All Chuck was to Graham was a chess piece—a pawn he felt free to move around the board to further his own aspirations or sacrifice as the notion suited him. And all Sarah had turned out to be to the man who'd more or less raised her since she was seventeen was a tool—a honed blade meant to be wielded as the necessity or the mood struck him. "I see," she managed, forcing the words through gritted teeth.

Oblivious to her fury, Graham continued. "Bartowski's fate was sealed the day he downloaded the original Intersect. We're just pushing up the timetable a bit. I should've had you put a bullet in his head on your first encounter. That's my fault. I take full responsibility. Hindsight's twenty-twenty, as they say."

With no small amount of horror, Sarah realized that if Graham had asked her to do just that, back when she first took this assignment, she would have obeyed without a second thought. Now? Chuck had become as vital to her as breathing. She could no more hurt him than she could cut her own throat. The past few months had changed her; there was no going back, and what's more, she didn't want to.

"So I take it the burn on Bartowski's not sanctioned?" she said, wanting him to confirm it for the recording.

Graham's voice dropped low, confiding. "Agent Walker … Sarah. When the dust has settled and you and Agent Larkin have been Intersected, the Andersons will ride again. With the Intersect in the heads of two highly trained agents, instead of a complete imbecile's, we'll be able to take down Fulcrum, once and for all. After that, you'll both have your choice of assignments—and the promotions that will surely follow. Section Chief? … Assistant Director? … One day, maybe even Director."

Her stomach churned. "Sir?"

"When I retire, of course. I've been grooming you from day one as my replacement. You're my best field agent. Think of what we could accomplish. We can leave this world a better place."

_Is that what you call it? _Sarah wanted to retort. Instead, she played the part of the dutiful agent—the one Graham would expect. "Yes sir. I agree. You'll have my full support. Who's the agent in Burbank that's been tasked to extract the asset?"

"His name's Longshore, but his cover's an LAPD detective by the name of Conway. I'll send you his details."

Sarah pressed harder, wanting to milk the conversation for all it was worth. "And what happens if Longshore's resistant to giving up the asset?"

"Kill him." The nonchalance in Graham's voice floored her—even more so because he'd said those same words to her before her first 'date' with Chuck, when she'd asked him what she should do if Chuck ran. "Just let me know when it's done, agent. Godspeed."

The phone went dead and Sarah's vision blurred. Her stomach roiled as she tried to process this new information, threatening to reject the last thing she'd eaten—a granola bar she'd tossed into her bag back in San Fran. She rummaged in her bag for the strawberry lip gloss Chuck loved, hoping the thought of kissing him would calm her down. More than anything, she needed to remind herself of the happy times they'd spent together—and the fact that more of those times were just around the corner. She would keep him safe, no matter what.

Rubbing her eyes hard, she got herself under control as her phone chirped, indicating a new email. Sure enough, Graham had sent her Longshore's full dossier. Sarah read through it and committed his face to memory. The more she thought about the ridiculous situation she'd just been placed in, the more her heavy heart lightened. Graham had just unwittingly put Chuck's fate in the hands of the one person that would ensure his survival.

A new plan started to form.

Before she'd fully plotted all of the components, the warehouse doors opened. Chuck and Casey exited, running in her direction, determination etched on both their faces. Getting out of the car, she walked around the front of the Porsche to meet them. Her hand slipped to the gun in the waistband of her jeans as she gave the lot a final once-over.

Chuck and Casey ground to a halt in front of Sarah, both slightly out of breath. "Walker, I need to take Bartowski back to the Buy More with me," Casey said without preamble. "Looks like it was Jeff and Lester that made off with the receiver without even knowing it."

"Jeff and Lester?" Sarah said, her eyebrows rising.

Chuck sighed. "It's a long story."

"We also know who the Fulcrum spy is, thanks to the kid here." Casey gestured at Chuck. "And since she hasn't gotten ahold of the receiver yet, we think she's still in the area. That's where I need your help. The pucker factor's pretty high right now and this Lizzie girl needs to be neutralized in a hurry. Alive would be preferable so we could question her, but dead's fine if you don't have a choice."

Hands on her hips, Sarah stared Casey down. "Why can't I go with Chuck and you go after her?"

"Think, Walker," Casey said, not bothering to hide his exasperation. "The Buy More's on lockdown. Cops are everywhere. Since I 'work' there, it won't raise any suspicions. Plus I'll bet my bottom dollar Jeff and Lester would just hit on you versus wetting their collective pants when they see me coming. Retrieving the receiver as quickly as possible is still our top priority."

"Fine." She gave Casey her fiercest glare. "But you better keep Chuck safe. And you're to contact me once you have the receiver. Copy?"

Casey's eye twitched in irritation. "Solid copy. Don't worry—your boy-toy will be just fine." He pulled out his phone, and a few seconds later, Sarah's phone chirped, indicating his incoming email. "I just sent you the mark's info. You should be able to nail her down pretty quickly."

Slipping her phone out of her pocket, Sarah checked the message Casey had sent. Lizzie Shafai, huh? The girl looked small and unintimidating. Taking her down would be a piece of cake. She scrolled lower and forwarded Longshore's full dossier to Casey, adding a quick message to watch out for the agent—he was undercover and had been sent to extract Chuck. There wasn't time to go into anything more. Every second they spent in this parking lot was a second someone could come outside and catch her standing there.

Exposed or not, she wasn't willing to let Chuck go without saying goodbye—and giving him a warning. "Casey," she said, "give me and Chuck a moment, please."

He gave her comment the measured look it deserved. "A short moment, Walker. Time's a-wastin'."

Strolling a few yards away, Casey made a show of examining his phone. Sarah knew he could hear every word they said, but she appreciated him giving them at least the illusion of privacy.

She took Chuck's hands in hers, her gaze roving over his face. "Look, Chuck. Promise me that you'll stick as close to Casey as possible. You're his shadow till you see me again. Do not let yourself be separated from him no matter what, okay?"

He freed one of his hands, brushing the tips of his fingers across her cheek. A shiver ran through her at his touch, but she did her best not to let it show.

"What's wrong, Sarah?" Despite the fact that _he_ was the one whose life was in danger, he sounded concerned about _her. _It was so very like him—so _Chuck—_that she had to fight the urge to throw her arms around him. If she did, she was afraid she'd never let go.

"You look really unsettled," he went on, with his usual perspicacity. "Is it about having to go after Lizzie? I don't care what Casey says, you don't have to kill her. You're the best there is. I'm sure you'll figure out another way."

As always, his confidence in her both amazed and disturbed her in equal parts. She was so afraid she'd let him down. "No, that's not my concern," she said slowly. The last thing she wanted Chuck to know was that she'd been ordered to take his life. He had other things to worry about right now. "But you're right. I've gotten enough blood on my hands to last a lifetime. I just want you to know that I love you more than anything."

His features softened. "And I love you." Tugging her closer, he threw caution to the wind and pressed his lips to hers. Predictably, Casey cleared his throat, as if they were offending his tender sensibilities. Sarah ignored him, going up on her tiptoes and knotting her hands in Chuck's hair to deepen the kiss.

Casey cleared his throat again, louder this time. "Clock, Walker," he said in admonition. "Ticking."

It took everything Sarah had to step away, but somehow she did it. "Goodbye, Chuck," she said, opening the door to the Porsche. "Be safe."

He gave her an open, sunny smile. It hurt her heart. "I will."

As Chuck and Casey headed for Casey's car, Sarah couldn't hold back the grin that split her face when she heard Casey mumble something about Chuck's damned lady-feelings.

OoOoOoOoO

Chuck slipped into Casey's car and put on his seat belt, thinking about the mint-and-strawberry taste of Sarah's lips. God, he loved that lip gloss of hers. If he asked nicely, he wondered if she might be willing to put it on for him again and again, so he could have the honor of repeatedly removing it.

Next to him, Casey made an aggravated sound. "Knock it off, Bartowski. I can hear you thinking nasty thoughts about Walker from here. She's like my sister, and I'd rather not sit here knowing you're imagining sticking your tongue down my sister's throat. It's bad enough I had to see it."

Embarrassed, Chuck folded his hands in his lap. "I'm not—"

The NSA agent shot him a disgusted look. "Save it. Here, take this. It'll be a good distraction." Cranking the car's engine with one hand, he set his cell phone on the console between them with the other.

"Why are you giving me your phone?" Chuck said, picking it up.

"You've got bigger problems than thinking about the next time you're gonna get to French-kiss Walker, numbnuts. Read."

Silently, Chuck obeyed. Sarah had forwarded Casey an email. There were a couple of notes at the beginning of the message, saying that the agent in question was undercover and had been sent to extract Chuck. He scrolled lower and saw a photo of someone who was all too familiar.

"Hey, I saw this guy at the Buy More this morning. Detective Conway, right?" he said, examining the agent's face. "Or … not, apparently."

Casey grunted—#56, affirmation with a side order of contempt.

"I'll take that as a yes. Moving on." As Chuck read through Sarah's email, he felt like his brain was operating on some kind of time delay, like a badly dubbed kung fu movie whose dialogue didn't quite match up with what was happening on screen. "Graham and Beckman's ordered this guy to extract me? What about them giving us twenty-four hours to find the receiver?"

"Now he gets it. I'm driving. You're reading. Get with the program." Casey pulled out of the parking lot and onto the road that led to the stoplight.

Chuck did as he was told. Sure enough, Casey hadn't lied. Conway—or Longshore, he now surmised—was a total badass. Halfway through the guy's dossier, Chuck wanted to duck for cover. No wonder Sarah'd looked so worried.

He got to the end of the dossier and handed the phone back to Casey, feeling like he'd just gotten the gig as one of Spinal Tap's many drummers—right on the verge of spontaneous human combustion. Struggling to stay calm, he blew out a long, unsteady breath.

"Don't freak out, Bartowski." Casey reclaimed his phone and stuck it back in his pocket, then turned left onto the main road. "Stick to me like glue and I'll make sure nothing happens to you. I'd hate to have to explain to Walker how I let her boy-toy get kidnapped and stuck underground … or worse."

Chuck stole a sideways glance at the NSA agent. Usually, he didn't find Casey's company all that comforting—but today felt different. Today, the guy was in full-on protection mode on his behalf, for no reason other than that he wanted to be. It gained Casey nothing, and it might well lose him his job—which meant that his only other possible motivation was friendship.

It had taken months of thinly veiled insults and outright threats, but somehow they'd arrived at a place where the two of them were friends. Casey might never admit it, but Chuck knew it was the truth.

"Look, Casey," he said, daring to touch the NSA agent's much-vaunted bicep, "I just want to let you know how much I appreciate this."

Casey shrugged out from under Chuck's grip. "What the hell are you yammering on about, Bartowski?"

"This." Chuck gestured at the empty space between them. "You've done a hell of a lot for me and Sarah. You've put your neck on the line again and again. I just want to let you know that I see it—and I appreciate it more than you can imagine. To me, you're like family."

A muscle in Casey's jaw twitched. "Don't you go thinking I'm gonna let you stick your tongue down my throat. Save that shit for Walker."

"I'm serious, Casey. I consider you family. Have for a while, and as such, if Sarah and I have to run, I'd like to ask you for one more favor—to look after the rest of our family … Ellie, Devon, and even Morgan. I'll never be able to pay you back for it, and I know I have no right to ask. But it would mean the world to me."

For a long instant, Casey didn't reply. Then he cleared his throat, and this time it didn't sound obnoxious, the way it had when Chuck was kissing Sarah. It sounded … almost emotional. "Don't worry about it. I'll look after them for you till you and Walker can right this sinking ship. You're a good man, Bartowski."

"Thank you so much—"

"Thank me later." He made the right turn onto the Buy More's street and pulled into the parking lot, now devoid of police officers. "Right now, we've got a receiver to find."

Together, the two of them strode into the Buy More. For the first time, Chuck felt as if he and Casey were truly a team. Too bad it was just in time for Chuck to get the hell out of Dodge.

They found Jeff and Lester leaning across the Nerd Herd desk, engaged in an activity more suited for elementary school students than two adult IT employees. Together, the two of them were chanting, "One, two, three, four. I declare a thumb war!"

Truly, they were an embarrassment to the human race. Bracing himself, Chuck walked over to them. "Jeff, Lester, we gotta talk. It's important."

Neither one of them so much as looked up. "Here's your problem, Charlie," Lester said. "Why's your time more valuable than mine?" He crushed Jeff's thumb against the latter's hand. "Oh, he is taking him over the top!"

This was too much for Casey, who had run through his depleting store of patience. Plowing through the crowd of Buymorons, he grabbed Jeff and Lester by their shirt collars and dragged them toward the home theatre room, with Chuck bringing up the rear. As the rest of the employees singsonged 'narc' under their breath, Casey threw both thumb war combatants into the home theatre room and slammed the door.

"Easy on the shirt, narc," Jeff said, smoothing his collar.

Casey ignored him. "Where's the fish?"

"Fish? What fish?" Jeff said, doing a truly terrible impression of an innocent person.

"Okay, we can do this the easy or the hard way." Casey cracked his knuckles and pointed to Lester, his eyes fixed on Jeff. "Easy way is I shove his foot up your ass."

"What's the hard way?" Jeff squinted up at Casey, who glowered at him.

"I use _my _foot," the NSA agent said, raising his sizable boot in a demonstration.

As much fun as Chuck was having, he figured he should probably intervene before Casey beat the information out of the two cretins. "Look, we've seen the surveillance footage, guys. Okay? We know you were here last night."

"Yeah, right," Jeff said, smirking the way he did when he thought he'd pulled something over on someone—a ploy that was successful exactly … never.

"You two geniuses thought you were turning the cameras off," Casey said, looming over them. "But instead, you turned them back on."

Neither Jeff nor Lester said a word. Before Casey murdered them, Chuck decided it was time to appeal to their greatest weakness: Fear of accountability. "We won't say anything to Big Mike, I promise."

Jeff and Lester looked at each other, but stayed silent—and Casey finally ran out of whatever sort of forbearance had enabled him to avoid crushing the two of them into pulp.

"Okay," he said, his voice dangerously even, and yanked the curtains closed.

"Whoa." Jeff finally sounded alarmed. "What's happening?"

Casey straightened, hands on his hips. "Charles, would you give us a few minutes, please?"

Frowning at Jeff and Lester, Chuck scrubbed his hands together and held them up as if to wash them clean of the situation—which he dearly wished he could do. Apparently his performance passed muster, because Lester's eyes widened in fear.

"Chuck?" he squeaked as Chuck backed away and Casey took his place. The NSA agent emanated quiet menace, and Jeff began to quake. The longer Casey stared at him, the more he trembled—and then he broke.

"It was his idea," he said, pointing at Lester.

"What?" Lester said, indignant. "The whole reason we snuck in was to get your alcoholic ass another drink. You were getting the shakes."

"Not cool." Jeff had the nerve to glare at him. "It's a disease."

Lester's voice rose, and he took a step away from Jeff. "You're a disease and you've diseased us all. Me, Chuck, this guy."

It would be just Chuck's luck if Lester decompensated before they could discover the location of the marlin. "Calm down," he said in his most soothing tone.

Lester fidgeted, his gaze flicking between Casey and Jeff. "Okay," he whispered at last.

Since Casey seemed unlikely to speak anytime soon, Chuck took control of the situation. Some level of diplomacy was obviously called for, and that was in no way the NSA agent's strong suit. "Look, Jeff, I totally understand your plight." He reached over to grab Casey's shoulder. "We sympathize with you, okay? And we don't judge."

At this, Casey shot him an incredulous look. _Oh, I definitely judge_, the look said. _I judge, and I thirst for retribution. Please let me smash their faces in.  
_

Chuck shook his head, repressing a grin. "Just tell us, what exactly happened?"

With a sigh, Jeff capitulated. "We were across the street at Bennigan's and I got cut off again—"

"Jeff. If you're gonna tell the story, please, don't butcher it." Lester rolled his eyes. "We were at Benni's, enjoying the deep-fried sampler, and we decided to come back to the store for a nightcap in the boss man's private stash. We turned off the alarm and we closed the security panel—"

"I told him we had the store to ourselves," Jeff said. "We should take off all our clothes."

"And I told him, don't make me uncomfortable to be alone with you." Lester edged further away from him. "We went into Big Mike's office and I told him to go get what we came for. So he opened the drawer in Big Mike's desk where he keeps his stuff and—"

"It was empty," Jeff said, looking affronted—as if Big Mike had demonstrated impossible audacity by not leaving sufficient libation lying around for anyone who decided to break and enter.

"I told him this was a wasted mission," Lester said. "That while we were here, we should do something exciting."

"And I suggested we burn the Buy More down." Jeff glanced nervously at Casey. "I was kidding, obviously. Because arson is a crime. Ha, ha."

"I looked up and I saw the marlin," Lester said, shrugging. "Then I told him, I was thinking more along the lines of a … fishing expedition. And that, my friend …" he paused for dramatic effect … "is the story of the missing marlin."

Chuck crossed his arms over his chest. "And where is the marlin now?"

Apparently Jeff's smirk was contagious—because it was now on Lester's face. "Ah, I'm afraid I'm going to need a little compensation," he said, rubbing his thumb and index finger together.

His tolerance for stupidity evaporated, Casey grabbed Jeff's ear, hard—and the thief caved.

"It's in Jeff's van."

OoOoOoOoO

As Sarah pulled her car into the strip mall where the Pita Parlour was located, she scanned the parking lot for Lizzie's candy-apple red 1969 Ford Mustang BOSS 429. It wasn't your typical delivery girl ride, after all, and should stick out like a sore thumb.

After a few passes, Sarah could see it was nowhere to be found. She drove around back to see if it was parked there. Sure enough, sitting catty-corner next to the back entrance was her target in all of its muscle-car glory.

Sarah drove past it and backed into a parking spot on the far side of a massive black SUV. The larger car would obscure her Porsche completely from Lizzie's vantage point if the pita girl exited the store. It was only a matter of time before Lizzie would have to leave for a delivery—or to carry out a more nefarious act, possibly involving Chuck. That image alone spurred her on.

She thought about confronting the pita girl right when Lizzie came out of the back of the restaurant, but decided that this spot was too public—innocent people could get hurt—and it was also Lizzie's home turf. She had no idea what kind of backup the Fulcrum agent might have. The NSA's deep dive that Casey had emailed to her didn't have any intel about this location, but Sarah was still suspicious. Better safe than sorry.

What the intel had revealed was that Lizzie Shafai was a suspected assassin for hire—a trained killer. She was also quite formidable in hand-to-hand combat and an expert with explosives. Sarah would need to bring her A-game and tread lightly. A lot of lives could be at risk—especially Chuck's—if she made the slightest mistake. That was simply not an option.

An idea popped into her head. Sarah grabbed her phone from her purse and reserved two rooms, side by side, under an alias at the Holiday Inn Express North Hollywood—just a few minutes' drive from the Buy More. She then called in a rather large order from the Parlour to be delivered to _her_ home turf, giving her the upper hand.

Before Sarah made her way out of the strip mall to set up the sting at the hotel, she stopped at Lizzie's car and placed a tracker on the Mustang just to be safe. She'd keep a close eye on Lizzie's movements to ensure she didn't deviate from Sarah's plans, leaving nothing to chance.

Shortly after arriving at the hotel, she was ready to pounce. She'd placed a pen camera in the hallway pointing towards the elevator. Chuck had once configured it for her to send the feed straight to her phone. Then she'd gone to the room further away from the elevator to switch on the TV, turning the volume up. Her trap set, she stood in the adjoining room, waiting for her quarry to arrive.

The tracker planted on Lizzie's car alerted Sarah that she was on her way. It wouldn't be long now. Sarah felt herself coil taut, ready to snap. She steadied her breathing and centered herself as she heard the elevator bell ding.

Game time.

Sarah had ordered so much food that Lizzie's arms were completely loaded down. Just as the Fulcrum agent walked past the camera, Sarah glanced up to see the darkening shadow that crossed the peephole. She opened the door and stepped out of her room, silenced gun drawn.

"Don't you move a fucking muscle, pita girl," she said, her voice a growl.

Lizzie looked over her shoulder at Sarah, face set in an expression of disdain. "Oh, aren't you precious. Listen, sweetheart, do yourself a favor. Lower the gun and just tell me where the fish is."

Sarah returned Lizzie's contemptuous look, with interest. "You obviously don't know who the hell you're dealing with. Now drop the food and slowly raise your hands in the air."

Lizzie complied, but as the bags of shwarma fell to the ground, Sarah saw that the pita girl's hand was inside one of them. Gravity pulled her hand free, revealing a silenced pistol of her own.

The Fulcrum agent lifted the gun, and Sarah threw an outer-crescent kick that knocked it from Lizzie's hand, sending the weapon skidding down the hallway. Lizzie's hands were now empty, which was a good thing—but it also allowed her to counter strike with an open palm to Sarah's face, leaving the CIA agent seeing stars as she staggered back. Before Sarah could right herself, Lizzie grabbed her gun hand, twisting it to the side. She threw an elbow strike to Sarah's wrist, dislodging the gun, which clattered to the floor.

Sarah was in a lot of pain, but she was also really pissed. The stars evaporated from her vision, leaving her bruised and furious.

Undaunted, Lizzie dove for the gun at their feet.

Mistake #1.

Sarah kneed Lizzie in the side of the head, knocking her onto her back. Lizzie didn't stay down long. The little bitch was feisty—Sarah'd give her that. She performed a perfect kip-up and was on her feet again, charging headlong at the CIA agent.

Mistake #2.

Right before Lizzie made contact, Sarah sidestepped her and spun hard, landing a powerful blow to Lizzie's spine with her elbow and sending her flying into the opposite wall. The resultant crunch of her breaking nose was painful to hear.

"You bitch!" Lizzie howled, clutching her face.

Lizzie might be screaming a war cry, but she was also staggering, clearly injured. Her eyes were wide with shock. It was time to finish her.

"What's wrong, sweetheart?" Sarah crooned. "Did that hurt?"

The Fulcrum agent's primal scream could be heard in the lobby—Sarah was sure of it. Good. Unrestrained anger was a hindrance in a fight.

Face stained with blood, Lizzie pushed off the wall and charged sideways at Sarah, going for an obvious ridge hand strike to the throat.

Mistake #3.

Sarah threw a spinning wheel kick as soon as her opponent got within range. Knowing that the combination of Lizzie's forward momentum and the speed and strength of her kick could easily kill the Fulcrum agent, she backed off at the last second, withholding a degree of force.

The outcome was still gruesome. Sarah's foot caught the girl right on the chin and her head whipped violently to the side. It was lights out for Lizzie. She fell to the floor like a marionette whose strings had just been cut.

Not wanting to stick around the hallway and be forced to offer an explanation for the ruckus they'd caused, Sarah dragged Lizzie into the room with the blaring TV. She zip-tied Lizzie to a chair and injected her with a powerful sedative. The Fulcrum agent would be out for hours.

Pulling out her phone again, she made a call.

"Walker," Casey said, his usual gruff self. "Give me some good news."

Sarah was only too happy to oblige. "Casey, I have Lizzie neutralized. I'm right down the road from the Buy More at the Holiday Inn Express North Hollywood—room 405. She'll be out for quite a while. Send a pickup crew. You'll be happy to know you'll get to question her all you want. She might have a nasty headache, though."

Casey gave a grunt of approbation. "Copy that, and you'll be happy to know we've just found the receiver in Jeff's van right behind the Buy More. Bartowski's wiping it clean as we speak."

"Wait." Sarah tugged on Lizzie's zip-ties, double checking that they'd hold. "You don't want to give it a once-over first?"

"Nope. Chuck was adamant and I concur. No data equals no problems. There was nothing on that thing that could've helped his situation. They could only use it against him. It's better for all parties if…" His voice trailed off, and he sucked in breath. "Conway! What in the hell do you think you're doing? Don't point that gun at…"

Sarah heard Casey grunting and a thump—maybe the sound of his phone thudding to the ground. Then there was a nasty crunch and the line went dead.

"Casey!" she yelled, but no one replied. If Casey was still there, he wouldn't—or couldn't—answer.

Somehow, Conway had gotten the drop on the NSA agent. Which could mean only one thing—Chuck was in terrible danger.

OoOoOoOoO

Zondra's car skidded to a halt as she pulled in behind the Buy More. She could see Casey lying face down near the loading dock, just feet away. Seeing the NSA agent so vulnerable terrified her. Oh God, what if he was dead?

She flung open the car door, rushed over to her partner, and rolled him onto his back. To her relief, there were no visible signs of blood ... but then what had happened? She felt for the pulse at his neck; it was beating slowly but steadily. Sitting back on her heels, she scanned his body for damage and found the source of the problem: A tranq dart, protruding from his side.

Son of a bitch.

"Casey!" She took him by the shoulders and shook him. "Wake up!"

His eyes blinked open, then shut again. Zondra shook him harder. "What the hell happened? Where's Chuck?"

The NSA agent struggled to push himself up to his elbows. When he spoke, his words were slurred. "Conway … is really Longshore. Working undercover. Shot me. Took Chuck. You … track his watch. Call Walker. No time to waste."

"Conway took Chuck? Took him where?" She dug her nails into Casey's arm, trying to rouse him further.

Clumsily, the NSA agent yanked his arm from her grasp. "No need … to bleed me. Don't know. Was unconscious. Stop talking. Call Walker."

Her heart pounding, Zondra fumbled for her phone. This all made a terrible kind of sense. Minutes ago, standing in the warehouse, she'd gotten a call from Beckman.

"We're pursuing the receiver," she'd told the NSA director. "We've got the location and it shouldn't be long before recovery."

"Stay with the receiver," Beckman had advised. "In the meantime, we've decided to extract Chuck."

"What?" A sinking feeling had spread through Zondra's body. "But we don't know if he's still in danger."

"There's a chance the identity of the Intersect has been compromised. We have to err on the side of caution."

"But you promised we had 48 hours," Zondra had said, feeling like a whiny child.

"You know the game, Agent Rizzo." Beckman spat out each syllable. "The order has gone out. Chuck is coming in."

The NSA director had hung up, leaving Zondra in shock—and filled with rage. She'd immediately tried to call Casey, and gotten no answer. Panicked, she'd gotten in the car and headed to the Buy More, only to stumble right into this cluster fuck.

How could Beckman treat Chuck like this—like he was an expendable unit to be shifted around wherever the spirit moved her? And why the hell would Conway shoot Casey—one of their own? The whole thing was more rotten than a case of three-day-old fish.

She activated the app that allowed her to track Chuck's watch and located his signal at 10750 Sherman Way—thank God, not too far from the Buy More. "You gonna be all right, Casey?" she said, looking down at the NSA agent's prone form. "I'm calling Walker and going after Chuck."

The NSA agent managed to make his way to a sitting position. "Don't worry about me." He struggled to focus on her face. "Just get moving."

Zondra didn't need to hear him say it twice. She flung herself back into the car, cranked the engine, and headed in the direction of Chuck's signal. As soon as the car was rolling, she called Sarah.

When Walker answered, she sounded on the verge of tears, her voice thready with panic. "Zondra … oh my God. They took him! They took Chuck."

"I know." Zondra made the first turn as quickly as she dared. "I'm en route. Where are you?"

"About a minute out from Sherman Way. There's a rooftop helipad there. They're gonna airlift him out of here." Walker's voice trembled. Zondra had never heard her sound so unhinged.

As shaken as Zondra felt, it was clear she would have to be the strong one. "That matches up," she said, repressing the fear that threatened to consume her. "I still have a signal on Chuck's watch. I'm about five minutes away. Stall till I can get there. Don't let them take off."

When Sarah spoke again, her voice was stronger. "Not a chance in hell. Hurry, Z."

* * *

A/N: At the risk of repeating ourselves, we're so sorry for the long lag in our story. Emily had to have an emergency surgery—gallbladder removal, unrelated to her treatment—and it knocked our whole family on our collective asses for a few weeks. Knocking on wood—we've managed to hop back in the proverbial saddle again, ready for the next phase in our dastardly plan to continue on with season 2. Your voices have been heard. Keep em' coming. They really do help.

A/N #2: A special thanks to Zettel, , WillieGarvin, and michaelfmx for consistently reaching out and showing us how close our community really is. Your friendship is truly cherished. Please give us a few days to respond to your PMs. As I'm sure you all understand, we felt it was more important to continue on with our story with the allotted time we had.

As always, thanks for reading.


	14. Convergence

Chapter Fourteen … in which Chuck makes a sacrifice, Sarah clears the air, Zondra admits a truth, Casey gives his all, and Ellie and Devon are called upon to save the day.

This chapter ends the Marlin arc and season one. Wow! What a ride it's been. As you'll see, canon's been left in the dust and will more or less stay there. There's a lot more to come.

Disclaimer: We don't own Chuck…

* * *

**Chapter 14: Convergence  
**

Chuck sat in the back of an unmarked police car with his hands cuffed in his lap, his mind reeling. What a cluster fuck. How'd things get so screwed up, so fast? He'd gone from the total elation he'd felt after finding the receiver and purging it of all of its data, to being held captive by the CIA. It was enough to give him whiplash.

From reading Longshore's dossier, Chuck had known the guy was a total badass—but the way he'd gotten the drop on Casey had been a shock to the system. At first, Chuck thought that Longshore had killed the NSA agent. After getting a closer look at the gun, though, he'd recognized the tranq pistol for what it was. It didn't have a silencer, but the shot was almost inaudible—just the high-pitched swooshing sound that usually accompanied firing such a weapon. Either way, at least Casey'd be all right—except for his complete mortification at letting this happen on his watch. The ex-Marine didn't tolerate failure, especially his own. Not to mention, he'd have to face Sarah when everything was said and done. On second thought, maybe Casey would have been better off if it _had_ been a real gun.

That brought Chuck's thoughts back to the beautiful and enigmatic Sarah Walker. How would she handle it if he ended up being bunkered, never to be seen again? Their relationship had progressed so quickly, to the point where he no longer thought of them as two separate entities. They were Chuck and Sarah … Sarah and Chuck … they were them. Together—made whole. Apart—incomplete. The insecurities that'd haunted him since Stanford had completely washed away when she declared her love for him. Just the thought of her gave his life color and weight; it now had definition. And to his delighted surprise, Chuck had come to realize that somehow, he'd given her the same gift. He'd been able to show Sarah that the same emotion that could break your heart into a million pieces could sometimes be the very one to heal it. If he was suddenly ripped from her life—the way it looked like he would be right now—it would destroy them both. Terror crept down Chuck's spine at the implications.

There was still a thread of hope. Longshore hadn't thought to remove Chuck's watch, so Sarah would most likely be tracking them. She'd been talking to Casey when Longshore had ambushed the NSA agent and must've heard what went down before Longshore crushed Casey's cell phone under his foot.

He had faith in Sarah's abilities, but things were looking pretty bleak at the moment. Dusk settled, and the streetlights came on. His kidnapper's car sped by them, bearing Chuck closer and closer to an unknown destination, and the strobe effect brought him out of his melancholic haze. He looked over at Longshore's silhouette as the agent lifted his phone to his ear.

"This is Longshore," he said, with a brevity that would've done Casey proud. "I have the package. ETA to the extraction point is five minutes. I'll call back once I'm on site. Prep the bird."

_The bird? _Despite the gravity of the situation, Chuck wanted to laugh. It was like he'd fallen sideways into a bad police drama. "So … this is it, huh?" he said, the first words he'd spoken since Longshore had cuffed him and shoved him into the back of the car. "Gonna get my own padded cell. Do I get a bed, or is my whole room kind of like a bed?"

"It's not as bad as it sounds. The underground complex where you'll be living has state-of-the-art security and amenities. You'll even be allowed outside to visit controlled locations."

God, the guy was like the world's most depressing tour guide. "State-of-the-art amenities?" Chuck said, employing his typical defense mechanism—humor. "Do I have an indoor racquetball court with a cyborg opponent? A salt cave with my own personal masseuse? 24/7 open bar? Exactly what are we talking about here?"

Longshore twisted his head to glare at Chuck. "This is not a joke. Things could be worse for you. Be grateful."

"Grateful that I'm gonna be stashed away in some underground version of a mausoleum? That I might never see my family again?" He flexed his hands, wishing he was Casey or Sarah and knew some magic method to extract himself from these damned cuffs. Then maybe he'd stand a chance of escape. "I … I can't leave without telling Ellie something—a reason for going. What should I say?"

"Nothing," Longshore said, his eyes on the road. "It's safer for them if you just … disappear."

Disappear? Was the guy crazy? So he was supposed to leave Ellie all alone, wondering for the rest of her life what had happened to him? They both already had that kind of baggage about their parents. Now he was supposed to add to her emotional load? Oh, hell no.

"Listen up, _agent_," Chuck said, his voice thick with venom. "I'm not about to do that to my sister. I don't care what you have to do to make it happen, but I need to call her and let her know what's going on."

Longshore ignored him, leaving Chuck seething. That clinched it. No more Mr. Nice-Captive. He needed to stall anyway, to give Sarah more time to find him. Even if Longshore ended up tranqing him too, Chuck knew his dead weight would still slow the agent down.

The car slowed, and Longshore flicked on his right turn signal. He pulled into a parking lot, and Chuck looked up at the building as a sense of déjà vu swept over him. He knew this place well. This was the extraction point where Sarah had brought Chuck after their first 'date' went to hell and she'd been forced into a standoff with Casey on its rooftop. It was equipped with a helipad—hence Longshore's reference to the 'bird.' If he managed to get Chuck onboard before Sarah arrived, it was all over. She was good—the best. But she couldn't stretch out her arms and fly.

The CIA agent parked the car, got out, and opened the back door. "Okay," he said. "Let's go."

Chuck slid to the opposite side of the car, as far away from the open door as possible. Visions of Gandhi flashed through his mind. He wouldn't try and fight Longshore—that would be the height of foolishness—but he could passively resist him. He just needed more time. _Come on, Sarah. Where are you?  
_

Leaning down, Longshore peered in at him, his brow creased with irritation. "I don't know what you think you're trying to accomplish here, Bartowski, but it won't work. I don't have time for this shit."

Wordless, Chuck just stared back at the agent, unblinking—unmoving.

Longshore's voice dropped, turning low and gravelly. "I don't think you fully understand the scope of the situation. My orders—" he pulled out his real gun, pointing it at Chuck's head in some kind of bizarre punctuation—"are to _try_ and get you secured safely, unless I feel the risk is too great. Then all bets are off. Trust me when I say this. You are rapidly becoming expendable in my eyes."

Chuck watched as Longshore flipped off the safety on his gun. The agent's finger twitched, tightening around the trigger. Not good. Maybe Chuck had overplayed his hand this time.

"Whoa ... whoa!" Stupidly, he held up his cuffed hands to shield his face—like that would do him any good against a bullet at close range. "Don't shoot. Jesus Christ. What the hell is wrong with you?"

He hadn't meant it as a rhetorical question, but the CIA agent didn't bother to answer. "Step out of the car and keep your trap shut," he said, reminding Chuck once again of Casey. The two of them would've made great taciturn buddies if they weren't on opposite sides of Operation Chuck 'Asset' Bartowski. "Remember," Longshore said, his gun still leveled in Chuck's direction, "silence is golden, but duct tape is silver."

Great—agent witticisms for the ages. Chuck would have to remember that one to share with Casey—if he ever saw the major again.

Slowly, he slid back towards the open door, still stalling for time. Losing the balance of his patience, Longshore reached in, grabbed Chuck by his hair, and yanked him out of the car, throwing him unceremoniously onto the asphalt. Now Chuck could add a little road rash to this glorious day. Yippee!

"Damn, man," Chuck said, staring up at the CIA agent. The guy loomed above him like some kind of armed colossus, backlit by a lone streetlight. "Lighten up, would you?"

In response, Longshore reached down, grabbed the chain that separated Chuck's hands, and pulled him to his feet. "Come on," he said, as if Chuck had a choice. "Let's go."

Reluctantly, Chuck followed. He tried to slow his pace, but whenever he did, the CIA agent yanked on the chain of his cuffs, making the metal of the bracelets bite into his wrist. He felt like a dog wearing a pinch collar. Resisting turned out to be pointless. Each arduous step up the nine flights of stairs felt like the gallows march. His life as he knew it was over.

When they finally made it to the top, Chuck could taste the salt from his sweat and tears. He couldn't hold it in any longer. He would miss everyone so much, but especially Sarah. All he could do now was pray for her to move on and find some kind of happiness. He knew it was unlikely, but he still hoped.

Once again, his captor pulled out a cell phone and dialed. "The package is ready for extraction," Longshore said with grim satisfaction. "Send in the chopper."

OoOoOoOoO

Sarah threw her phone into the passenger seat as her car skidded around the last turn. Her tires squealed and bumped, barely gripping the road, as she hit the straightaway towards her target. She would find Chuck, and she would save him. Anything else was unthinkable.

At least Zondra was en route. She'd have backup … or, at least she hoped she would. Sarah was still not completely assured as to where Zondra's loyalties lay. Then again, if the expression that Sarah'd seen in her friend's eyes when she was looking at Chuck were any clue, Zondra would be a force to reckon with. Chuck's lovable magnetism had struck again. Sarah knew firsthand the effects of such feelings.

She was still berating herself for allowing this to happen. Sarah should've been there, with him, instead of fighting that wildcat schwarma girl. If they ever got out of this mess, there was no way in hell she'd ever agree to be separated from Chuck again. If something happened to him because of this, she'd never forgive herself. It was as simple as that. Her life would be over.

One thing was for sure—no more sitting on the sidelines, hoping things magically panned out. She would ensure they did, going forward. She was the trained agent, but Chuck was her future. He was her … everything.

Her heart pumping as tears threatened to well up in her eyes, Sarah made the final turn into the parking lot. Fishtailing to a stop in front of a familiar set of stairs, she leapt from the car, not bothering to turn off the engine.

She took the steps two, sometimes three at a time, but her ascent still felt like an eternity. Every second was vital. On the final floor, Sarah drew her gun and, for the first time since she was a tiny child, prayed.

When she rounded the last corner, relief flooded her body. She wasn't too late. Chuck stood there next to Longshore—handcuffed and looking miserable, but in front of her and alive.

There wasn't time for subterfuge. Sarah had no choice but to tackle this situation head-on, and hope her backup came through. "Longshore!" she yelled, and the agent's head swiveled toward the sound.

His eyes widened in recognition—and in surprise, when he focused on her gun. "Is there a problem, Agent Walker?" His hand settled on his own gun, holstered at his waist.

Chuck's eyes widened too, but with a potent combination of relief and gratitude. "Sarah. Thank God you're here. Listen, I … I don't wanna go yet. I ca—"

The sound of Chuck's voice was beautiful, especially because Sarah had thought she might never hear it again. Still, there was no time for her to let him finish talking. "Listen to me carefully, Longshore," she said, cutting Chuck off and training her gun on the CIA agent. "Your life could depend on it. The Fulcrum mole's in custody. You're to release the asset to me … Graham's orders."

Longshore shook his head. "If there was a change in the operation, I would have been contacted. I have my own orders, Walker."

Honesty hadn't worked; Sarah tried to appeal to Longshore's humanity, if he had any. "You don't have to do this. Don't make me forcefully take him from you. You have a choice."

"You know I don't. His cover was blown; he's gone."

"No," Sarah protested. "I take full responsibility. Chuck's my asset. He's my guy."

It was as if she hadn't spoken. Longshore's eyes lit with an expression Sarah had seen many times over the years—the fervor of the true believer. Casey used to look like that … before Chuck came into their lives.

"Don't do this," she begged, but she might as well have been talking to herself. Longshore unclipped the strap that held his gun in his holster, ready to strike. "No!" she yelled, but it was too late—he'd made his choice.

Chuck spun towards Longshore in time to see him remove his gun and point it in Sarah's direction. The heroic idiot stepped in between the two of them with his cuffed hands held up, blocking them from shooting each other.

Desperate, Sarah tried to sidestep Chuck to get a bead on the other CIA agent. Before she could get a shot off, a scream came from the stairs. Zondra barreled onto the scene, her Beretta drawn and aimed at Longshore.

The moment morphed into a slow-motion version of a Grade B horror film. Startled by Zondra's sudden appearance, Longshore swung his gun at the newest threat. Chuck, being … Chuck, moved without thought.

"Zondra!" he screamed. "Watch out!"

Sarah could only watch, helpless, as Chuck dove through the air just as Longshore squeezed the trigger. The result was instant. The bullet hit Chuck with such force that he was driven back a few feet from where he would've landed if gravity had had its way.

Frozen in a moment of shock, Sarah's world collapsed. Forgetting Longshore altogether, she ran to Chuck.

The staccato recoil of Zondra's gun was the only sound Sarah registered as Zondra emptied her entire clip into Longshore, yelling at the top of her lungs. She left a bloody mess in her wake, but Sarah paid no attention to what remained of Chuck's captor—the agent who'd shot the man she loved. Dimly, she was aware Zondra was making sure Longshore was down for the count—that he wasn't going to get up and shoot Chuck _again_—but none of that mattered. All she cared about was getting to Chuck, even though she was terrified of what she'd find.

When Sarah reached Chuck's side, he was lying face down in a pool of his own blood. _No, no, no, no. _The syllable pounded in Sarah's head, louder than the frantic beat of her heart. She rolled Chuck over, afraid to look. He lay still, his face blanched, and for a terrible moment she was sure he was dead. Then his voice came, still beautiful, but laced with pain.

"Ow, ow, ow. Damn, that hurts," he said, sounding dazed. "Wait a minute. Oh, my God, Sarah. I was shot!"

"I know, Chuck. Just lie still. We'll get you help." Sarah did her best to project an aura of calm, but inside, she was dissolving into pure panic. The white shirt under Chuck's jacket was wicking red down his entire right side. He was losing blood fast. By a miracle, Sarah hadn't lost him … but if she didn't do something soon, she still might.

"How bad is it?" He struggled to see the damage for himself … and then passed out cold, either from shock or the sight of his own blood. Sarah prayed it was the latter. They needed to move him, and in a hurry.

"Sarah?" It was Zondra's voice, smaller and more timid than Sarah had ever heard it. "Is he …"

The anguish and desperation in Zondra's voice rivaled Sarah's own. "No. He's alive, but we need to get him help as quickly as possible if we want to keep him that way. Help me get his jacket off. I need to see exactly where he was hit so we can apply pressure. He's losing a lot of blood."

They wrestled his jacket off and Sarah ripped open his shirt. The wound was right between his pectoral muscle and shoulder. Thank God, it didn't look like the bullet had hit any major organs—but bullets tended to fragment and bounce around when they entered the body. Well, she couldn't think about that right now. She needed to concentrate on stemming his blood loss and worry about everything else once they got him help.

Sarah took out one of her knives and cut off a sleeve from Chuck's jacket. She glanced over at Zondra, looking for help. None was forthcoming. The other agent stared into the middle distance, tears running down her normally stoic face. Sarah could relate, but right now she needed Zondra to snap out of it.

"Z, give me a hand here," she said, her voice sharp. "Hold him up."

The fog cleared from Zondra's eyes and she lifted Chuck up enough for Sarah to wrap the sleeve under his arm and over his shoulder. She tied the sleeve in a knot, as tight as she could make it. Without anything else on hand to use, Sarah slipped her gun through the knot and twisted it, tightening the makeshift tourniquet even more. She knew it must hurt like hell, but Chuck didn't make a sound. Not good.

When they had the tourniquet secured, Zondra finally spoke. "Why would he do it, Sarah? The guy I just took down—he had me dead to rights. I know I shouldn't have just barreled up here without a plan. I'd be dead right now if it wasn't for Chuck."

Sarah didn't disagree, but now wasn't the time for a rhetorical debate. "You can thank him later," she said, inspecting her handiwork to be sure it would hold. "Right now, we need to get him off this roof. There's a chopper inbound." In fact, she was pretty sure she could hear it in the distance. "They can't find us up here when they land. We need to move him … now."

"I noticed an elevator on the floor right below us," Zondra said, making a visible effort to control herself.

That would have to be good enough. "Come on. Grab his feet."

Sarah snatched up what was left of Chuck's jacket and together, the two of them managed to haul Chuck to the floor right below and call for the elevator. The whop-whop-whop echo of the approaching helicopter was clear now, getting closer by the second. Their time was up. Once the pilot landed and called in the gruesome sight of Longshore's body—plus the trail of blood left by Chuck's wound—Sarah knew that Beckman would let loose the hounds. Graham had told her to do whatever she needed to do to take Chuck out, including killing Longshore if the situation required it, but he would've never wanted her to leave such a mess. If Chuck lived, the situation had possibilities—but right now, they were in a world of trouble.

Once they got to the ground floor, choices needed to be made. Zondra's Jeep was parked right behind Sarah's Porsche. The doors of both vehicles were wide open, abandoned when their owners had leaped out to get to Chuck.

Zondra chimed in, settling the matter. "Put him in my back seat so we can lay him flat. We can't take him to the hospital. There'll be a BOLO out on him shortly. What'll we do?"

During their descent in the elevator, Sarah had run through all of their options. She'd only come up with one decent scenario. It was risky as hell, but it might mean the difference between life and death for Chuck. "We need to get to Devon right now," she said. "He's our best chance. We need to get Chuck back to Echo Park. I just hope Devon's there. I'll call Casey en route so he's ready for our arrival. Stay on my ass and don't let anyone stop you."

Zondra nodded, and they maneuvered Chuck into the back seat of the Jeep. Zondra elevated his feet as Sarah draped her jacket over his to help keep him warm. Shock was still an issue and he was becoming ghostly pale, but when Sarah checked his shirt, it looked like the blood loss had slowed. Their tourniquet was holding—but would it be enough?

Before she headed for her car, Sarah removed Chuck's watch and stomped it under her boot heel. He was supposed to disappear without a trace, according to Graham's orders, and if he survived, that's exactly what he'd do.

She got into her car and put it in gear, trying to control her panic. Sarah's promise to herself—to not be separated from Chuck—was already taunting her. Minutes later, here she was, depending on someone she used to suspect of being a traitor to keep Chuck safe. Only the look in Zondra's eyes stifled her reluctance.

Zondra had stared down at Chuck's motionless body with an expression of pure adoration and devotion. The guy had literally taken a bullet for her. He'd thrown himself in the line of fire to save her life without a second thought.

Yep, Zondra was now completely hooked. Line and sinker. Any way you looked at it, Sarah was so screwed. Damn it.

Well … as long as Chuck survived, Sarah could deal with the fallout later. She backed out of her parking spot. Zondra left her just enough room to take the lead, and, tires squealing, the Porsche swerved into traffic.

The moment Zondra's headlights appeared in her rearview, Sarah grabbed her phone from the passenger's seat and made the call.

"Walker," Casey said immediately. "I'm so sorr…"

Sarah had never heard the NSA agent apologize before, but right now she couldn't care less. "Save it, Casey. Where are you?"

"Inbound on your location." Casey was all business. "ETA … three minutes."

"Well, turn around. Chuck's been shot. We're headed for Echo Park—no time to explain. Cut the surveillance and prep the med kit."

There was a brief silence. Then Casey said, his voice laden with self-recrimination, "Copy that. I'm on it."

The line went dead and she finally allowed the black well of emotion to engulf her.

OoOoOoOoO

_He saved me. That heroic, lovable, self-deprecating, adorable nerd saved me_. Those two sentences played on repeat in Zondra's head as she pursued Walker's car.

Her heart was no longer in a tug of war battle with her brain. Both were now solely fixed on the man in her back seat, fighting for his life. She'd been so foolish these past few months. Always fighting her feelings because of the asset/handler protocol and her lingering thoughts of Bryce—someone who would've never put her life above his own, the way Chuck just had. Hell, Bryce never even acknowledged her completely, when push came to shove. What a colossal waste of time.

Then there was her job with the CIA—the same organization that had just tried to imprison an innocent man who'd gone above and beyond the call of duty for his country. He'd never asked for any of this, yet he'd always risen to the occasion, and that's how they wanted to repay him? Well, screw that.

Zondra had spent so much time trying to find her way back into the CIA's good graces after the whole C.A.T. squad debacle, and for what? So she could be party to the betrayal of a wonderful man? That's not what she'd signed up for.

Well, the bloom was certainly off of the rose now. Beckman's words—when Zondra had begged for the time that was promised them—had left a mark. That callous bitch's flippant attitude was still etched in her mind. _You know the game, Agent Rizzo. The order has gone out. Chuck is coming in.  
_

This was no game. It was a man's life. Not just any man, but someone who was beyond special to her. For the first time since Zondra had joined the CIA, she felt completely disillusioned by the whole gig. If it wasn't for the man barely clinging to life in her back seat of her car, she'd turn in her gun and badge and walk away.

As Zondra's and Sarah's cars blew through a red light, she stole a glance over her shoulder to check on Chuck. The sight left Zondra chilled. His face was ashen and his hand had fallen off his chest and dropped to the floorboard between the front and back seats, leaving his palm showing—coated with blood.

She reached back and grabbed hold of Chuck's wrist, her other hand tight on the wheel, and felt a slow and steady pulse. Lacing her fingers through his, she spoke to the ether—grief dripping from her every word.

"Damn it, Chuck. Don't you dare even think about leaving me … got it? I need you to fight right now. I've got so much I need to tell you, but not like this. I've been so stupid—so caught up in my own head. Never again, Chuck. Do you hear me?"

Of course, there was no response—but at least he was still alive. Carefully, she laid Chuck's hand back on his chest and wiped away the lone tear that'd escaped down her cheek.

Her blurred vision wasn't just the byproduct of the tears she was fighting back. Walker was driving like a woman possessed. It was all Zondra could do to keep her Jeep from lifting off the road. She had an inkling of what was driving Walker on, but decided she'd cross that bridge once Chuck was out of the woods.

Oh, yes. She had a few questions for Walker, all right. What was she even doing here, for starters? This was the second time she'd showed up out of nowhere—and right when Chuck's life depended on it, too. That couldn't be a coincidence. What was going on between her and Chuck? Sarah had sworn there was nothing between them, and Chuck had too. But this wasn't the way a CIA agent drove when their former asset had been shot. This was how a woman careened down the road when her lover's life was in danger. Zondra would have been willing to bet that both Walker and Chuck had lied to her about the nature of their relationship—unless, of course, it was one-sided.

Well, Zondra could certainly understand why Walker would fall for Chuck. After all, _she _certainly had. If she hadn't been willing to admit it to herself before—or if she'd been in any way on the fence—having the guy take a bullet for her was the clincher.

So what exactly existed between Walker and her former asset? And if—_when_—Chuck healed, was there any way he'd turn to Zondra? A guy didn't let himself get shot for just anyone, did he? Then again, if that guy was Chuck Bartowski, maybe he did …

Zondra shoved all of those questions down as they rounded the last turn, heading for Echo Park. As they pulled up by the front gate to the courtyard, Casey stood sentinel, waiting. When he saw their cars approaching he started to pace, ready to pounce. Before she could even get her car into park, he'd already scooped Chuck out of the backseat with such efficiency, it was hard not to be impressed. It was also impossible not to notice the pained look plastered all over the NSA agent's face. At least they were all on the same page concerning Chuck's well-being.

Casey spun on his heels with Chuck in his arms and was off. Sarah led the way and was already through the gates. Zondra assumed she was sprinting ahead to check and see if Devon was home. Both his and Ellie's cars were parked out front, so that was a good sign. _Please, _she thought desperately._ Please be there. _Ellie was a talented neurologist, but a cardiothoracic surgeon was what they really needed right now.

By the time Zondra reached the fountain, Casey's door was wide open and Walker had already gone through the front door of the Bartowski/Woodcomb residence. Through the window Zondra could see Sarah standing in front of Devon and Ellie, who were sitting on the couch. She was gesturing wildly, her arms flailing about with more animation than Zondra had ever seen. A moment later the two doctors leapt to their feet, dashed out the door, ran across the courtyard, and ducked into Casey's apartment, closing the door behind them.

Sarah stumbled out of Chuck's apartment and collapsed on the edge of the fountain, elbows on her knees and face in her hands. Her entire posture telegraphed misery. If Zondra hadn't been sure before, she knew now. This wasn't a woman who was just doing her duty. This was a woman in love. _Shit!  
_

Time for some damn answers.

"So, Walker," Zondra said, "just what the hell is going on? Why are you here?"

"I know you have a lot of questions, Z, but I don't want to leave Chuck alone right now," Sarah said, lifting her head. There were dark smudges under her eyes. "Not that he's alone, per se, but—I want to be in there with him … just in case. Before I go, though—there's something you need to hear."

Blinking back tears of her own, Sarah took out her phone. Glancing up at Zondra, she pulled up a recording and hit play.

Zondra felt nauseated as she listened to Graham order Walker to kill Chuck—making sure it looked like a Fulcrum hit—so he could better line the CIA's coffers. Rage coursed through her veins. First Beckman and now Graham. Everyone she'd been working for either wanted to use Chuck for their own ends or destroy him completely.

Maybe this was a messed-up thing to think about right now—certainly it proved that beneath her CIA training beat the heart of a true nerd—but the situation with Graham and Beckman reminded Zondra of the Star Wars novel_ Betrayal_. She'd meant to recommend this one to Chuck, actually—she'd thought he'd like it. God, what if she never got the chance?

In _Betrayal_, Luke Skywalker had warned, 'There are times when the end justifies the means. But when you build an argument based on a whole series of such times, you may find that you've constructed an entire philosophy of evil.' Wasn't that exactly what Beckman and Graham were doing? They both preached incessantly about how the greater good could justify horrendously evil acts. There was no line they wouldn't cross under that guise. In the end, they were no better than Fulcrum and they needed to be stopped.

When the recording ended, Sarah slipped the phone into her pocket and dropped her face back into her hands. Zondra wanted more than anything to see how Chuck was doing, but there was one more thing she needed to get straight first.

"You love him, don't you?" she asked Sarah.

Slowly, Sarah nodded. "Since the day I met him ... And I can see that you love him too."

What was the point in denying it? "Never claimed I was smart," she said, eyes flicking toward the door to Casey's apartment. "Come on, blondie. Let get in there and make sure he's still around for us to fight over."

OoOoOoOoO

Casey sat beside his kitchen table with a needle from a field blood transfusion kit stuck in his arm. He was O negative—the universal blood donor—and knew time was of the essence. He'd already prepped the kit before Walker and Rizzo arrived. If Bartowski needed blood, it was gonna be his. He owed it to the kid and didn't care if they took every last drop he had.

Remembering their earlier conversation about Casey being part of Chuck's family was eating him alive. He'd failed his newly-minted brother when Longshore had gotten the drop on him and he wondered if Chuck would ever forgive him. He knew he didn't deserve it.

Casey had spent a fair amount of time studying the classics; you never knew what you might learn. Right now, Aristotle's words were ringing true in his head: _Shame is an ornament of the young; a disgrace of the old._ Throughout his time in the Marines and then later with the NSA, Casey'd seen his fair share of gunshot wounds, but right now he was having a hard time even looking at Bartowski laid out on his table as his sister's boyfriend—fiancé?—operated on him with Ellie acting as Devon's surgical nurse.

While they were prepping the kid, Walker had filled him in on everything that'd happened. He hated to admit it, but it stung a bit to find out Rizzo had killed Longshore before Casey had a chance to stretch the bastard's neck. At least he could find comfort in the fact that Longshore would soon be worm food—may the son of a bitch rot in hell.

It was a testimony to Walker's character that she didn't look at him in disgust when she brought him up to speed. She'd never have let Chuck be taken like that on her watch. But Casey could also tell she was barely holding it together. Rizzo too. They were both looking at the kid like he was sand slipping through their fingers.

Sarah's reaction was to be expected, but the look on Rizzo's face had left Casey gobsmacked. When the hell had she fallen for the kid? Bartowski'd struck again.

Out of Casey's peripheral vision, he saw Ellie bend down to measure the collecting bag of the transfusion kit. He chanced a glance her way, and saw a sad smile light her face.

"That's enough, John," she said. "Thank you so much."

"Are you sure?" He flexed his fingers. "I still feel fine."

"That's sweet of you, but no. I think we have all we need." Removing the needle, she taped a cotton ball at the crook of his elbow, covering the puncture mark. "Bend your arm and hold it up, okay?"

"Thanks, Ellie," Casey muttered, doing as he was told. God. What was it with these damned Bartowski siblings? Here she was, thanking someone who'd completely failed her brother and allowed him to be captured. Did she not understand that this was all his fault? What exactly had Walker told them? This situation was way worse than any torture Casey could've imagined.

"Got it!" Devon said with a surgeon's gruesome jubilation, interrupting Casey's thoughts. "Hey John … come over here and take a look at this. Tell me what you think."

Ellie handed him a surgical mask. He hooked it over his ears, walked around the table, and got his first good look at Chuck's face. The kid looked bad—pale, limp, and covered in blood. Seeing him like that made Casey want to shoot something.

When he made it around to where Devon was standing, Casey could see the surgeon holding a slug with his forceps. "Does that look whole to you?" Devon said.

Finally, something he could do. He knew bullets. If this one had sheared off, he'd be able to tell. He peered at it, squinting to be sure. It was a 9mm—standard issue—and it hadn't fragmented. "Yeah, you're good," he said, his voice gruff.

"Thanks, John." Devon turned to Ellie, who was standing next to him, her face nearly as pale as her brother's. "Okay, babe. I could use a bit of suction so I can double check for any bleeders. Then we can stitch him up."

Ellie's lower lip trembled, but she nodded and complied. How the hell must she feel, watching her boyfriend operate on her brother on her neighbor's kitchen table? Casey had to hand it to her—she was a trouper. No complaints, no whining, just jumping in and doing what needed to be done. Still, she should never have been in this position. If Casey had done his job properly, Ellie would be sitting on the couch eating popcorn and watching flicks … not suctioning blood away from Chuck's goddamn gunshot wound.

Walker was hovering next to the table, looking devastated. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her hands streaked with Chuck's blood. She hadn't said a word since she and Zondra had come into the apartment, not wanting to distract Devon from his work. Now, though, she couldn't hold it in any longer.

"Is he gonna be okay, Devon?" she said. Casey could tell she was struggling to keep her voice steady.

The surgeon nodded as Ellie put a needle in his hand. "We'll still need to keep an eye out for infection and he'll not have the use of his right arm for about a month or so, but yeah. I think he'll be fine. He's really lucky. The bullet didn't even break any bones and no organs were hit. That's pretty rare."

At this, all three women broke down in tears. Well, shit. Casey needed to get out of there before he lost his damn mind.

"Thank you so much Awes… I mean Devon," Walker managed, wiping her eyes.

Ellie grinned at Walker through her tears. "It's okay, Sarah. You can say it. I think this time the name fits. He _was_ awesome."

"Thanks, babe," Devon said, putting the final suture in Chuck's wound and setting the needle down on his makeshift operating tray.

As Devon took his mask off and Ellie began clearing away the detritus from the operation, Casey's phone rang. He looked down to see who it was, then held up his hand to the room and placed his index finger to his lips for silence.

"Casey, secure but in public," he said.

"Report, Major," Beckman barked. "Where's the asset?"

Casey had had plenty of time to think through what he was going to say—a combination of truth and lies. The words flowed easily off his tongue, fueled by relief that the kid was going to make it.

"Agent Longshore tranqed me in an ambush at the Buy More after we recovered the receiver. After I came to, I tracked the asset's watch to what I presume was the designated extraction point. When I arrived, the scene was gruesome, to put it kindly. Agent Longshore's body was riddled with bullets and what looked to be a second target's blood—either the perp's or the asset's." His eyes fell on Chuck's body again, and anger flooded him. He almost wished that asshole Longshore wasn't dead, so he could have the pleasure of killing him again … slowly. "I suggest we deploy one of our teams to the site so we can ascertain the DNA and know for sure. I'm currently sweeping the area. Tracking Bartowski's watch is pointless, since I found it leading away from the building. My gut's telling me this was a professional hit—possibly Fulcrum."

Silence. Then Beckman said, "Have you been in touch with Agent Rizzo? Maybe she has more information."

Casey looked over at Zondra, who was standing a step behind Walker. She'd pulled a napkin from somewhere and was dabbing at her eyes. Casey gave her a pointed look and she slowly shook her head.

"No, ma'am," he said, lying to a superior and not minding one bit. "Agent Rizzo's been M.I.A. since the ambush. If she was tracking the asset as well, it's possible she ended up as collateral damage. Again—we need to know whose blood is on that helipad."

"Very well, Major," Beckman said briskly. "I'll send in a team. In the meantime, I want you to continue combing the area. That building didn't have any surveillance. It's why we chose that location in the first place. But someone had to have seen something. Talk with Bartowski's friends and family, too. We can't trust anyone at this point. And Casey …"

"Yes, ma'am?"

"If you do manage to locate the asset, take him out." Her voice was steel. "He's far too dangerous to us now. Are we clear?"

"Crystal," Casey told her. Indeed, so many things were becoming clear—including Beckman and Graham's level of malevolence.

Some people became NSA, CIA, or even FBI agents because they craved power and cheap thrills. Casey'd never been one of them. He'd joined the Marines and then the NSA because he was a patriot who believed fervently in upholding the Constitution's tenets. Now he was once again being asked to engage in the murder of an innocent man. Well, the hell with that. His boss didn't understand the first thing about honor and Casey didn't have the time or crayons to explain it to her. She was a disgrace to the uniform.

True to form, Beckman hung up without saying goodbye. Good riddance. Casey couldn't wait to help bring the bitch down once and for all.

OoOoOoOoO

When Casey got off the phone, Sarah knew it was time to leave. Chuck was in grave danger hiding out here in Echo Park—and Casey's taciturn face had still spoken volumes. She was sure of it: He'd just gotten the same order from Beckman that she'd gotten from Graham.

It was also time to clear the air and say what needed to be said. This was her team. Her family. Her future. There was no telling when Sarah'd have another chance.

"Ellie," she said, watching Chuck's sister drop bloodied cloths into Casey's kitchen trash can, "it's time to tell Devon the truth."

Behind her, Casey made an uneasy sound. "Walker, do you really think—"

She rounded on him. "Yes, Casey, I do. I'm tired of all the lies. Devon just saved Chuck's life. No questions asked, he just spent an hour patching up Chuck's gunshot wound on your kitchen table. I think he deserves to know why Chuck got shot, don't you? Not to mention the mess Devon's now in the middle of, just because he's a good guy who was in the right place at the wrong time—sound familiar?"

Casey gave a noncommittal grunt, which Sarah took for agreement. Either way, it didn't matter—she'd made up her mind.

Before she could say anything, though, Ellie spoke up. "I would very much like to know why my brother got shot, and I'm sure Devon would too. As for the rest of it—Devon knows about the Intersect. He knows you're all … agents. I told him right away. I know you said not to, but I'd trust Devon with my life—and, obviously, with Chuck's. Not to mention, I don't keep secrets from the people I love."

_That _was a barbed comment, and Sarah took a moment to absorb it. She deserved whatever Ellie had to throw at her; she'd promised to keep Chuck safe, and she'd failed, even if indirectly. If it wasn't for Devon, he might've died tonight, and there would have been nothing Sarah could've done about it.

"I—" she began, but Zondra cut her off.

"I know you've got a hero complex, Walker, but you're not taking responsibility for this one. Ellie, Devon—Chuck got shot because he was trying to save my life. He dove in front of a bullet that was meant for me. I guess Walker here's not the only one determined to be a hero."

"Chuck did what?" Devon turned from the sink, where he was scrubbing his hands clean. "My dude took a bullet for you? That's a little … intense. Who was trying to shoot you?"

"Ah, well." Casey sounded extraordinarily uncomfortable. "An undercover agent that Beckman sent. He never would've gotten to Chuck if he hadn't managed to take me out first. I'm still not sure how he got the drop on me. He had a tranq pistol, but that's no excuse. I'm trained to assess and eliminate threats that're bigger than he could ever hope to be. Anyway, he knocked me out and when I woke up, Chuck was gone. Ellie, Devon, I owe you a huge apology. It was my job to keep Chuck safe and I failed him. If he'd died, it would've been my fault."

Ellie glossed right over this, zeroing in on the point as usual. Hands on hips, she looked between Sarah, Casey, and Zondra. "This undercover agent—where is he now?"

"That depends on whether you believe in an afterlife." Zondra shrugged. "I shot him. Several times, actually. He's not a threat anymore."

"Whoa." Devon sank into one of Casey's kitchen chairs. He looked slightly less put-together than usual; his hair was tousled and there was still a streak of Chuck's blood on his face. "So Chuck's out of trouble?"

"I wouldn't say that. Kind of the opposite, actually." If Ellie had been furious with Sarah before, this would be a thousand times worse—but it didn't matter. Sarah was tired of playing games. Everyone standing in this room deserved to know the truth, despite the price she might personally have to pay. "The agent that shot Chuck—he was there to extract him. To bunker him, like you and I talked about, Ellie. Even though we found the threat to Chuck's cover and eliminated her—and we even found the receiver, so Fulcrum didn't have any intel on Chuck—they were going to bunker him anyhow. They sent this agent in … and then Graham did something I never would have imagined. I knew he always put the job first, that he was ambitious, but this … He called me and gave me orders to kill Chuck." She could barely get the words out. When she saw the horrified looks on Ellie and Devon's faces, her throat closed even further. "I was able to track Chuck to a helipad where the agent was holding him. Zondra followed for backup, and—well, you know what happened after that."

Ellie's cheeks flushed bright red. "What the hell is wrong with these people? After all my brother's done for them, how can they possibly treat him this way? They don't care about him at all, do they?"

"No," Casey said. "They don't. That was the director of the NSA on the phone. She just ordered me to kill Chuck, too."

"You've got to be kidding me." Devon shot to his feet. "This is the United States of America. You can't just … kill people. There are laws. Courts. Trials. Doesn't Chuck have the right to any of that?"

"No," Zondra said. "They don't think of him as an American citizen with rights. They consider him government property. Like … a top-secret computer file. If information is too problematic, what do you do? You hide it—or, if worse comes to worse, you delete it."

"This is unbelievable." Ellie paced the length of Casey's living room. "What are we going to do?"

"We still have to run," Sarah said. "But not the way you and I talked about before. This changes things. The amount of blood on that rooftop—it's enough for me to be able to tell Graham that Chuck's dead, and have him believe it. Then I can take him back to San Francisco. Bryce and I already have a safe house there, and we've been ordered to go dark. There won't be any other agents coming in or out. We can hide him in plain sight. It's perfect."

Zondra had been leaning against Casey's refrigerator. Hearing this, she straightened up and gave Sarah a cryptic smile. "Too bad Chuck's not the only one who's dead in that scenario. Aside from Longshore, I mean."

"What are you talking about?" But Sarah was all-too-sure she knew.

"Casey just told Beckman I'm M.I.A., so she already thinks I'm in the wind. It would be easy to say that I interrupted you when you were trying to take Chuck from Longshore. You tricked me into helping you get Chuck off the roof, and then you drove the two of us out into the desert somewhere, let Chuck bleed out, shot me, and hid the bodies. Voila, I'm officially dead. You've fulfilled Graham's orders, and you've got another agent helping you protect Chuck. Like you said, it's perfect."

For the love of God. "You want to come with us to San Francisco?"

Zondra's jaw set. "What are my other choices? Let Graham reassign me to some hellhole, attached to another morally ambiguous mission? No thanks. I'm done being their lapdog. Plus—I owe Chuck my life."

On so many levels, Sarah hated the idea—but she had to admit, it was smart. This way, even if she and Bryce got sent out on a mission, Zondra would be there to protect Chuck. Grudgingly, she lifted one shoulder and let it fall. "Fair enough. That could work. Graham did tell me he didn't want there to be any bodies, so it's not like he's going to ask me for proof. And you could be our ace in the hole, if we need one."

Zondra nodded, and for the first time since Sarah had found that bug in her friend's boot all those years ago, she felt as if the two of them were on the same page. "Element of surprise," Zondra said, baring her teeth in the world's scariest grin. "They'll never see me coming."

Devon leaned back, tilting his chair onto two legs. "Ellie told me about the two of you—and you, Casey—but hearing you talk like this … man, it's crazy."

"Says the guy who just performed emergency life-saving surgery on my kitchen table," Casey said dryly. "It's not a bad plan, Walker. One question, though. Is Bartowski stable enough to be moved?"

"If we do it carefully, I think so." Devon let his chair thud back onto the floor. "He'd need to lie flat, with his feet elevated. We'll also need to cover him to keep him toasty. You've got a couple hours before he wakes up, so I'd take advantage of that. Man, I wish I could go with you. I hate the idea of him waking up in the back of a car without a doctor there."

It was a terrifying thought, Sarah agreed—but not nearly as terrifying as what would happen if Beckman's goons showed up on Casey's doorstep, looking for the asset. "That's it, then. We'll put Chuck back in the Jeep. Zondra can follow me in my car. Soon as I get on the road, I'll call Graham to let him know the job's done, tell him Zondra got in the way and I had to take her out. We'll get Chuck up to San Francisco, take care of him until he's fully healed, and get him back in the game. Casey, what about you? What're your plans?"

The NSA agent cleared his throat. "Simple … keep my promise."

He looked abashed—an expression Sarah couldn't recall ever seeing on his face. "Meaning?" she prodded.

"Earlier today, I promised Chuck that if you and he had to run, I'd look after Ellie, Devon, and even that hairy lawn troll Morgan. Well, I broke a promise to him the second I let myself get tranqed and I'm not about to break another one." He gestured at Ellie and Devon. "I'll make sure you guys are safe if it kills me. I'll even resign my commission if I have to."

Of all the surprising things that had happened that day, this was in the top two. Sarah had never imagined that Casey would prioritize protecting the family of the guy he regularly referred to as "moron" over his status as an NSA agent. Not for the first time, she reflected on Chuck's miraculous ability to bring out the best in people. "Okay, then," she said, trying not to let her shock show in her voice. "Let's get moving."

"You're leaving now?" Ellie's eyes went to her brother, who was lying motionless on the table.

Sarah softened her voice, despite the urgency she felt. If she was the one who was forced to stay behind while someone drove a grievously-wounded Chuck hours and hours away, she'd be devastated … even if she knew it was the right thing to do. "We have to," she told Ellie. "I'm sorry."

Dipping her head in acknowledgment, Ellie walked over and pressed a kiss to Chuck's forehead. "Be safe," Sarah heard her whisper. "I'm so sorry this is happening to you, little brother."

She stepped back, heading for the stack of napkins on the kitchen counter, as Devon and Casey moved in to lift Chuck from the table. Seizing her opportunity, Sarah slipped Devon the ring that she'd found in Chuck's jacket pocket. His eyes widened, but he took it and shoved it into his pocket. "Thanks," he mouthed.

There wasn't time for Sarah to say what she wanted—that somehow she'd try and make things all right before the wedding. That she hoped Chuck would be there to walk his sister down the aisle. Instead she just gave him a weak smile and moved aside.

As gingerly as if Chuck were made of fine crystal, Devon and Casey carried him out to the Jeep. Zondra followed to open the doors for them, leaving Sarah and Ellie alone together.

They stared at each other for an uncomfortable moment. The guilt was overwhelming. Sarah gave Chuck's sister a tentative nod—not knowing what else to say—and turned to leave. Before she got out the door, Ellie grabbed her by the wrist.

"Sarah … before you go … I—I'd like to apologize."

Sarah couldn't have been more surprised if Ellie had snuck into the back of the Jeep, making her way to San Francisco as their secret cargo. "Apologize? What in the world for? I'm the one—"

Chuck's sister held up a hand. "Please, Sarah. Hear me out."

Silently, Sarah nodded again.

"The last time we talked I was angry—frightened—still am." Ellie spared a glance for the kitchen table, still spotted with Chuck's blood. "But the more I thought about that conversation, the more I realized how totally unfair I was being to you. I was blaming you for everything—for bringing all of this down on my little brother when you showed up in our lives. Tonight, it occurred to me that it could've been someone like that Longshore asshole that Beckman and Graham sent, instead of you. I can see now that if that'd happened, I would've already lost him … and probably without any knowledge of how … or why."

The same thought had occurred to Sarah multiple times—usually in the middle of the night, when she woke up in a sweat with her heart pounding. She stared at Ellie, who was still talking.

"When Devon was operating on Chuck, I could see the look in your eyes—the fear that was matched only by my own. That's who I want in my little brother's life. That's who he deserves. Someone that puts his well-being and happiness above their own. You're that person, Sarah. His guardian angel. The protector of his heart." Ellie swallowed hard, her eyes bright. "One day, when this is all behind us, I hope you can view me as part of your family. I've always wanted a little sister."

The dam broke as Sarah launched herself into Ellie's arms, hugging her as if her life depended on it. The two women held on for dear life, swaying back and forth. She loved this woman so much.

"Please take care of him," Ellie said fiercely. "We almost lost him today. I know you still think it's your fault, but trust me, it wasn't. It was his own damn fault, for being the amazing person that he is. But—I can't lose him, Sarah. I can't. Promise me."

For Ellie to lose Chuck, that would mean Sarah had lost him too. That was unacceptable. Unendurable. Keeping him alive was a promise Sarah would die to keep.

She clung desperately to Ellie, holding Chuck's sister as close as possible. "You won't lose him," she said, matching Ellie's fierceness with her own. "I promise."

Letting go, they shared a smile and walked, arm in arm, out to where Zondra and Sarah's cars were parked. After checking on Chuck one last time, Sarah slid into her seat and turned the key. She twisted her head to look at Casey, Devon, and Ellie, standing together with identical woebegone expressions on their faces. Ellie lifted a hand in goodbye, and Sarah waved back. Then she set her shoulders, drew a deep breath, and drove away.

Zondra followed closely as they took as many backroads as they could to make it to the highway. Here they were—an unlikely team, united by a common goal: To keep Chuck safe and take down the bastards who meant him harm.

As the miles stretched out before them, Sarah had just one thought.

Things would never be the same again.

* * *

A/N: It's so nice to be back in the swing of things. Emily's healing well and we've both been bolstered by your suggestions and reviews. Please keep them coming. As most of the writers here can attest, they're a big part of what keeps us going.

A/N #2: As michaelfmx pointed out, we'll also be covering the time between Seasons One and Two. That's what we'll be concentrating on for the next five or six chapters. For all of those that have wanted a purely AU experience, this is our chance to give you just that. We hope you won't be disappointed.

As always, thanks for reading.


	15. Sarah vs the Vault

Chapter Fifteen … in which Sarah finds that she's not alone, Zondra finds a surprise, Chuck finds himself in a surreal situation, and Bryce finds the courage to finally bury the hatchet.

This chapter starts the Vault arc and our first foray into one hundred percent pure AU. We know it's been a long time coming and hope you're not disappointed.

Disclaimer: We don't own Chuck…

* * *

**Chapter 15: Sarah vs the Vault  
**

Sarah looked in her rearview mirror once again, making sure Zondra was still tight on her tail. They'd been traveling on the I-5 for a little over an hour now. Burbank was behind them, but the unknown still lay ahead.

Even though she was frazzled from the day's events, Sarah felt confident she could perform the remaining task she really didn't relish—calling Graham. Slowing down to just over the speed limit—something she rarely did—she moved into the right-hand lane and set her cruise control. This late at night, traffic was sparse and all she needed to do was keep the car in between the highway's dividing lines … which was good, because she was going to need to concentrate. Not only did she have to come across as completely believable to the head of the CIA, she also had to make sure she captured the conversation in its entirety on her recording app—making Graham implicate himself even more than he already had. Checking the rearview mirror one more time, she made the call.

"Agent Walker," Graham said, his voice crisp. "What's your status?"

She summoned up the old Sarah—the one for whom nothing was more important than seeing the job through. "It's done, sir. I'm on my way back right now. I ran into a few complications, but was still able to complete the mission."

Graham cleared his throat expectantly. "Yes?"

"Longshore was reluctant in giving up the asset, as I suspected." That much was true. "We were interrupted in our … negotiations … when Bartowski's handler—Agent Rizzo—showed up, surprising us both."

"I see. And just how did you handle that particular … complication?"

Showtime. Sarah gazed through the windshield, fixing her eyes on the distant taillights of the car in front of her, and braced herself to lie. "Unfortunately, there were some dynamics between Agent Rizzo and the asset that I was left in the dark about. Did you order Agent Rizzo to seduce the asset?"

"I gave no such order, although we did insist that they should spend more time together." Graham sounded irritated. "I take it you have a point to all this?"

"I do, sir. Agent Rizzo approached Agent Longshore with her gun drawn. He and I were already in a tense standoff about me taking possession of the asset. Startled by Agent Rizzo's sudden appearance, Agent Longshore trained his gun on her, preparing to fire. When the asset saw what was happening, he threw himself in the line of fire and was hit in the chest. Agent Rizzo took that opportunity to gun down Agent Longshore, emptying her entire clip in the process—an obvious act of passion."

It was a dry recitation, free of emotion—but Graham reacted to her last words, as she had known he would. When he spoke, Sarah could almost see the skeptical expression on his face, complete with raised eyebrows. "I'm sorry, agent. An act of passion?"

There were times during the past few years that Sarah would've loved nothing more than to throw Zondra under the bus. Hell, if Chuck was right, and Zondra was telling the truth about what happened with the bug in her boot, Sarah _had _thrown her erstwhile best friend under the bus, albeit unintentionally. How ironic that this time she was once again selling Z out—but this time, with the other agent's full permission and cooperation. "_That's _my point, sir. It looked like there was a lot more going on between Agent Rizzo and Mr. Bartowski than an asset/handler relationship. It was sloppy and foolish for her to empty her clip like that and it gave me—or anyone else who might've been there—the upper hand … but I didn't take it."

"Why not?" The skepticism in Graham's voice deepened. "That's not like you, Agent Walker."

"Sir, there was a chopper inbound for the asset's extraction and I could see that he was still breathing. Remember, you ordered me to make this look like a Fulcrum hit. They wouldn't have left the Intersect on a rooftop to bleed out. You also ordered that there should be no bodies." She drew a deep breath. "As I'm sure you're aware, Agent Rizzo and I have a troublesome history, to say the least, but I still needed her help to quickly get the asset off that rooftop and secured."

"And how did you convince her to help you?"

"That's why I was confused about the nature of their relationship. It wasn't all that hard to convince her. I simply told her I was there to stop Longshore from extracting Chuck—that he deserved to live a normal life." The words came more easily now; Sarah was simply telling the truth.

"She bought that story? Any field agent should know better than to form attachments."

_You bastard. _That was the line he'd fed Sarah for the entirety of her professional life … and it was a lie. Sure, getting attached made it harder to murder people in cold blood—but in Sarah's opinion, that was a good thing. Over the years that she'd been with the CIA—and before then, if she was totally honest with herself—her humanity had slipped away, draining from her drop by drop, so slowly she hadn't even seen it go. Whatever she'd noticed, she'd chalked up to the cost of doing business. She hadn't missed the softer side of herself … until she'd met Chuck, and realized just how much she'd sacrificed.

Then again, if all you cared about was the job—which she believed of Graham—then any field agent _should _know better than to form attachments. Without people to love, you were a far more efficient mindless killing machine.

Sarah shuddered, thinking of the cold, soulless way she'd lived for years, and forced herself to continue. "You had to be there to understand—to see it with your own eyes, sir. She was frantic—desperate. Bartowski was dying in front of her and I think at that point she'd have done anything to try and save his life. So together we got him downstairs and into her car." Again, nothing but the truth. "I told her to follow me—said I knew where we could get him help and we needed to get out of there before the extraction team arrived. We could already hear the inbound chopper. When she agreed, I drove them close to where I'd planned to dump the asset's body—a random house on the outskirts of town that I'd driven by when scouting my options. When we were getting Bartowski out of the car, I took her distraction as an opportunity to take Agent Rizzo out. The rest was SOP."

Her boss gave a small chuckle—as if Sarah had told an amusing joke rather than confessed to letting a man die and killing her former partner. "I'm impressed, Agent Walker—completed your mission and managed to get some revenge in the process. We trained you well. I just hope you were careful. No one can ever know about this … not even your partner. If anyone ever found out, you'd be tried and convicted of murder. There'd be nothing I could do to protect you."

Great … give her an amoral mission designed to line his agency's pockets and fulfill his agenda while hanging her out to dry. "Don't worry, sir," Sarah said, drawing on all her training to keep her voice free of sarcasm. "Your orders were clear. I left no trace."

"Very well, agent. Get back to your assignment and get some rest. You've earned it. But tomorrow, I'll need you to get back on task. I sorry I don't have the luxury of giving you some well-deserved downtime."

"I understand, sir." She glanced in the rearview for a glimpse of Zondra's car. A second later, Z flashed her lights, almost as if she could sense Sarah's scrutiny … Z's way of teasing. Sarah'd missed her former partner's quirky sense of humor. "It won't be a problem."

"Very well, agent. Goodnight."

"Good—" Sarah began, but it was too late; mission accomplished, Graham had already hung up.

"You have a lovely evening too, sir," Sarah muttered. It was getting harder and harder for her to deal with the man. Hopefully she wouldn't have to be privy to his twisted worldview for much longer.

Clicking off the recording app, Sarah pulled off the highway at the next exit, checking her mirror to make sure Zondra followed. As with the last few times she'd spoken with Graham, she felt sick to her stomach. She had to get out of her car. _Road rage_ was starting to take on a whole new meaning. The pit stop would also give her a chance to check on Chuck. He could be coming out of the anesthesia at any time.

At the top of the off-ramp, Sarah assessed the situation in both directions. It was brighter to her left, so she decided to go right and found what looked like an abandoned warehouse a half-mile down the road. She pulled in behind it and shut off the engine. Zondra followed suit and did the same.

The moon was almost full, and the night sky was cloudless. With the headlights out, a soft opal glow enveloped them. Crickets and cicadas chirped all around them, with the occasional bullfrog joining in the chorus. For a deserted parking lot behind an empty warehouse in the middle of nowhere, it was eerily magical.

Sarah took another deep breath to calm her nerves and stepped out of the car. Zondra was already leaning through the back door of her Jeep, checking on Chuck. As Sarah approached, Z looked up and a Cheshire Cat, shit-eating grin split her face.

"Needed a pee break, huh? You never could hold your water. I should start calling you Wee-Wee Walker."

"Oh, you're hilarious, Z," Sarah said, her voice dry. "No, I just needed a second to clear my head before I accidentally killed someone. Just got off the phone with Graham. Here." She held out her cell. "Just hit play … but do me a favor and keep it off of speaker. I don't think I can stomach hearing his voice again."

Zondra brought the phone up to her ear as Sarah walked over to the side of the Jeep. When she peered down to take in Chuck's face, she felt suffused with relief. Even in the low light, Sarah could see the rosy color was back in his cheeks and his closed eyes were moving rapidly in REM sleep. God, those long eyelashes of his. How was that even fair?

The best part was, even in his sleep and after all he'd recently been through, he still wore that slightly crooked smile that she loved so much. The smile he reserved just for her. She'd give anything to know what he was dreaming about right now. Lightly brushing a curl off of his forehead, she ran her hand down his stubbly jawline, rubbing his cheek with her thumb.

Soft as a cat, Zondra came up behind her, and Sarah pulled back her hand, turning to face her friend.

"Damn, Walker," Z said, keeping her voice pitched low so as to not disturb Chuck. The longer they could keep him asleep, the better. If they were really lucky, they'd get all the way back to San Fran before he came around. "That performance you just gave was absolutely brilliant. You had him eating that shit up—the rat bastard. We should be able to nail his ass to the wall with the recordings we have on him alone."

Remembering how Chuck had said Zondra was into all those nerdy movies he loved, Sarah dredged up her best pop-culture lingo—her version of extending an olive branch. "Patience, young Skywalker. All in good time. It's too soon and Graham's too powerful right now. It's the same with Beckman. We have plenty of dirt on her too. What we really need is an ally in the DNI, or even higher up if we can. When the hammer comes down, I want both of them standing flatfooted. No chance to retaliate. The risk of fallout's too great if it's not a finishing move."

By the light of the moon, Sarah saw Z's lips quirk. "Finishing move? You know that's nerd speak, right?"

Sarah gave her a shy smirk and a small shrug. "Yup."

"Wow, Chuck's really done a number on you." Zondra rubbed a hand over her mouth, suppressing laughter. "I like it."

"Thanks … and thanks for having my back tonight too. You really came through for me, Z."

"Don't mention it. So, Wee-Wee Walker … can we get back on the road now or do you still need"—she tilted her head toward a wooded area behind the parking lot—"a moment?"

Sarah shot her the bird. "Sure, let's hit it. Just flash your lights if he wakes up and we'll pull over, okay? He still looks like he's sleeping hard. I'm hoping he makes it all the way there before he comes to. Waking up disoriented in the back of a car, speeding down the highway, will probably freak him out."

"After you," Zondra said, gesturing at the Porsche.

They piled back into their respective cars and pulled onto the road, heading for the highway. For the first time in hours, Sarah relaxed in her seat, one hand resting lightly on the wheel. Seeing Chuck looking more like himself had bolstered her spirits. He wasn't completely out of the woods yet, but she was starting to think he'd be all right. Now it was just a matter of keeping him that way.

Gunning the Porsche's motor as the car surged back onto I-5, she thought about her team—her family. Team Bartowski.

Casey was back in Burbank, keeping watch over Ellie, Devon, and Morgan. His about-face when it came to his duty had floored her. Now that she thought about it, though, she wasn't all that surprised. Casey was loyal to what he put his faith in—and who was more deserving of that faith than Chuck?

From Sarah's perspective, Zondra's allegiance was no longer in question. As problematic as it was, Z's love for Chuck made her as fierce a guardian as Sarah herself—someone else who'd do anything to keep him safe. And she had to admit, it was great having her best friend around again. They'd easily fallen back into their old routines and banter, and it just felt right.

Even Bryce had gone out of his way to cover for her and Chuck while she was gone. He'd never have put his neck on the line like that back in the day if it didn't further his personal goals or the mission. Maybe his near-death experience at the hands of Fulcrum had brought him around. Or maybe he was finally seeing things for the first time without the obscurity of spy-colored glasses.

But the more Sarah thought about all the drastic changes of heart each of them had undergone, the more she realized there was a simpler, yet more powerful reason that explained them all.

Her Chuck.

OoOoOoOoO

The streetlights from the San Francisco subdivision blurred by, creating a glare on Zondra's grimy windshield as she followed Sarah through a myriad of twists and turns to their final destination. By some miracle they'd made it all the way to the Golden City without Chuck waking. He'd mumbled a few times under his breath—causing her heart to skip a beat—but had quickly lapsed back into a slow, steady, breathing pattern. She felt thankful for that kindness.

The neighborhood they were approaching was called Visitacion Valley and was tucked back in the southeastern quadrant of the city. It was a family-oriented, working-class district on hilly streets with brightly-colored houses, piled right on top of one another in a domino effect. Its out-of-the-way location made it the perfect place for a safe house.

After they entered the city limits, every turn that they took made Zondra more apprehensive about their arrival. It'd been a long time since she'd seen Bryce Larkin in the flesh, and if you'd asked her just a few weeks ago, she might've told you she was excited to see him again after all these years. But that was before Bryce's spell had been lifted by a person who was worth their weight in gold. Now, Zondra just felt like their reunion would be extremely awkward—at least for her.

As they pulled up by the curb in front of the safe house, Zondra found a few things about the place that stood out. It was situated at the uppermost crest of the steepest hill in the neighborhood, giving it a perfect view of Hunters Point and the shipyard—and all points in between. They'd be able to see any threats coming from literally miles away. The main living quarters of the house seemed to be situated above a single-car garage and entryway. As a whole, the house was small and unobtrusive—which was good, because the last thing they wanted was to call attention to themselves. It wasn't up to Echo Park standards, but it would do.

The garage door lifted and there Bryce stood, his hands gesturing for her to pull in. He didn't have that cocksure grin that she remembered from their time at the Farm. Instead, a look of concern was stamped on his features. His eyes were wide as he scanned the street.

She backed her Jeep into the bay. Sarah'd parked the Porsche at the curb—which surprised Zondra, given that her car was her baby—and she jogged up to join them.

Bryce didn't greet either of them. Instead, he rushed over to the side of the Jeep, looking down at his friend through the window. Opening the back door, he rested his hand on Chuck's forehead and stood for a few moments in silence, bent over Chuck as if he were praying. When he looked up again, his deep blue eyes were clouded with emotion. He ran his fingers through his hair before he spoke.

"What the hell happened?"

"Let's get him inside first, then I'll bring you up to speed. There's a lot to go over." Sarah's tone was all business—colored by none of the tenderness that tinted it when she talked about Chuck or even the lightness that had crept into it when Zondra'd teased her behind the warehouse. If Zondra had harbored any lingering thoughts that her friend had feelings for Bryce, they evaporated in the face of Walker's businesslike attitude.

Bryce opened his mouth to argue, but he caught a glimpse of the determined look on Sarah's face and dropped the subject. "I bet there is. Where is he hurt?"

"Right shoulder," Sarah said, peeling back the jacket she'd draped over Chuck and dropping it onto the floorboard. "Be careful. Here, you get his feet."

As the three agents were gingerly lifting Chuck from the back seat of the car, doing their best to avoid his wounded shoulder, his eyes opened. He blinked twice, as if ridding himself of a haze only he could see. To Zondra's surprise, when his gaze finally focused, he didn't look panicked or distraught. He actually looked … amused?

"Hey guys," he said, giving them a weak grin.

"Chuck!" Sarah said, looking like she wanted to throw her arms around him—a technical impossibility, given that both her hands were engaged in trying to balance his weight without hurting him.

"Did someone happen to get the license plate number of the car that ran me over?" Chuck said, his eyes flicking between the three of them.

"Yeah, buddy," Bryce said, his voice devoid of any of its usual sarcasm. "We got it."

"Good, good … that's really good. I think I'm gonna rest my eyes for a bit, if that's okay." Without waiting for an answer, he passed out cold again—probably from the pain of being moved.

Once they got Chuck upstairs, they laid him on the couch and covered him with a few blankets. He looked so peaceful lying there. Zondra just wanted to snuggle up next to him and fall asleep too. It was a little after four in the morning, and she was beyond exhausted—both physically and emotionally.

Well, snuggling up next to Chuck wasn't an option, so Zondra did the next best thing—snoop. While Sarah filled Bryce in on everything that'd happened to them, she took a moment to get a feel for the place. The house was a small two-bedroom, one-bath with a built-in kitchenette. The living room was furnished with a couch, coffee table, loveseat, and recliner—all a matching blue and pretty basic, like they'd been purchased as a set from Rooms To Go. Across from the couch was a glass entertainment center with a large flat-screen TV. The far corner of the room held a computer station with two large monitors. Their gridded pattern of mini-windows showed the security feeds from every angle of the residence's exterior.

Zondra sat down in the recliner, stretching out her legs and propping her feet on the coffee table. In her peripheral vision, she saw Bryce staring at her. When she glanced over, though, he tried to play it off, shifting his attention back to Sarah as she was finishing up their harrowing tale. He hadn't been able to look her in the eye since they arrived—yep, awkward.

Bryce slumped back in his seat, staring into space. "I can't believe Chuck would jump in front of a bullet like that. I didn't think he had it in him."

"Maybe that's because you've always underestimated him," Zondra said, dropping her feet and swiveling to face him. She hadn't intended her first words to him in years to be undergirded with such vitriol, but they came out that way just the same. Maybe she still harbored some ill will towards Bryce for how he'd treated her—but that had been a long time ago, and if push came to shove, she'd bet her reaction was more grounded in her knowledge of Chuck and Bryce's tumultuous history.

Over their months together, Chuck had let slip a few times about what'd happened to him at Stanford—never complaining, just in passing. After conferring with Casey, she'd gotten the full story. Bryce had basically decided Chuck wasn't up to snuff and made a life-changing decision for him, ruining his life in the process. Now that Zondra had acknowledged her own feelings for Chuck, she felt overly protective.

She expected Bryce to brush her off or get defensive, but he did neither.

"Yeah, I have. I've made a lot of terrible choices in regards to Chuck … and other people as well." He finally looked Zondra in the eye, and she could swear she saw true compassion there, mixed with genuine guilt. Now she couldn't hold _his_ gaze, so she looked out the window. Maybe she was reading too much into his pointed look. It didn't matter anyway. He was a day late and a dollar short.

Sarah cleared her throat. "Well, I'm beat. Z … you can take my room." She hooked a thumb over her shoulder, pointing down the narrow hallway. "I'll stay out here."

"No, that's okay, Sarah. Zondra can have my room for the duration," Bryce said, demonstrating more thoughtfulness in that single sentence than he had during all the years that Zondra had known him—especially because they'd spent most of those years not speaking. "I'll grab the cot out of the closet and move my things out here in the morning. You both deserve a good night's rest after the day you've had. Plus, when Chuck wakes up, I need to speak with him and try to explain things. It's been a long time coming."

Sarah sat there for a moment, deliberating. It was clear she wanted to stay with Chuck. So did Zondra, but in the end they both let Bryce have his way. If he needed to clear the air with Chuck—especially if they were all going to have to live together—then he should have the chance.

"All right, then," Sarah said, albeit reluctantly. "Come on, Z. I'll give you the nickel-tour and lend you some PJs."

Once Zondra got to her room, she changed into the borrowed PJs that Sarah had lent her—loose-fitting yoga pants and a pink tank top. When she saw the condition of the place, she had to shake her head. Some things never changed: Bryce was still a slob and had clothes lying everywhere. His bed was unmade—and God knew the last time he'd washed the sheets—but she was too tired to care about that right now. Tomorrow, there'd be plenty of time to worry about laundry and get Bryce to clean up his stuff.

As she was sliding under the covers, she saw a spiral notebook lying on the nightstand. Picking it up, she thumbed through it with her last gasp of energy, getting a feel for the man's brain. Yes, it was invasive, but she was a spy … or undead ex-spy, now that she thought about it.

From what she could discern from Bryce's sloppy handwriting, it looked as if he and Sarah were trying to figure out how to break into a bank. That should have come as a shock to the system, but in her world, it was just par for the course. Zondra was sure this had to do with some kind of mission they were on. She would ask about it in the morning.

Before turning out the light, she opened the nightstand's drawer to put away the notepad. Things like that shouldn't be left out for anyone to read—present company included. As she placed the notepad inside, she thought she saw the glossy edge of a photo. She leaned forward to get a better look and her hand flew to her mouth as her heart somersaulted. There, lying alone in the drawer, was a picture of her and Bryce. He had his arm around her, gazing into her eyes, as the two of them stood in front of a Christmas tree. The lights were low in the picture, but you could still clearly see Bryce's face. His expression was warm and inviting—completely awestruck—as if he'd just discovered a new element. It was alchemy.

She'd remembered the night this picture had been taken. It had been at the Farm, during their training. She'd never gotten a copy of the photo, and didn't know Bryce had, either. But apparently he had and he'd kept it with him all this time.

Taking a closer look at the photograph, she realized something that made her even more lightheaded. The picture was ragged around the edges and had faded slightly. It was well-worn. It wasn't a photo that lay abandoned in a drawer, discarded and forgotten.

No, this showed all the signs of deep memory. Of longing.

Zondra dropped the photo back in the drawer like it was on fire. She couldn't deal with this right now. There was so much going on … and now this?

She shut the drawer and killed the light, falling back onto her pillow with a huff. It was too much to take in. All this time, when she'd thought Bryce had discarded her without a second thought, he'd been missing her—staring at her picture?

It shouldn't have made a difference, but somehow it did. Just when she thought she'd kicked the habit … she was knocked on her ass again.

Her body wouldn't be getting the rest it needed tonight. Her mind would make sure of it.

OoOoOoOoO

There wasn't a doubt in Chuck's mind. Someone had come along while he was sleeping and used his head as a chisel. Every muscle in his body was throbbing. What in the hell had happened?

He willed his eyes to open, and after a reluctant moment, they complied. Light flooded his field of vision, momentarily blinding him. When he could see again, though, he was sure he was hallucinating. What other explanation could there be for the fact that Bryce Larkin was sitting next to him, an unfamiliar expression of concern creasing his forehead?

Yep, definitely hallucinating. Chuck closed his eyes again, hoping that would help. When he blinked them open, the haze cleared further, bringing everything into focus.

So much for hallucinating. It was Bryce, all right. He was sitting on a cot, right next to the—couch?—where Chuck was lying. The concerned look deepened as Bryce leaned forward, peering down at Chuck with his elbows on his knees.

Great. He'd woken up in a strange place, an unspeakable pain creasing his right shoulder, with his arch-nemesis as his nursemaid. Chuck tried to question this unfortunate state of affairs, but when he opened his mouth, nothing came out.

Seeing his distress, Bryce rested a comforting hand on Chuck's forearm—another first. Maybe the guy had had a personality transplant.

"It's okay, Chuck," he said, his voice soft. "Try and stay calm. You're safe and Sarah's safe too. I promise. She's asleep in one of the bedrooms right now, I'm sure wishing she were out here. I had to talk her out of staying and she must've not wanted to make a scene—although for a second I thought she still might."

"Sarah's safe?" Chuck managed, his voice hoarse.

"I swear. As are you—no thanks to your pathetic sense of self-preservation." His lips quirked, taking away the sting. "You have quite the pair of guardians. I asked them both if I could watch over you while they slept. I wanted a moment alone so we could talk. You know … to try and explain things. Plus, they're both pretty beat. Been driving your sorry ass down the highway all night. Welcome to San Francisco, my friend."

"Uh … thanks," Chuck said reflexively. He scanned the room, assessing his surroundings. The drapes were pulled, but in the cracks between them, he could see the hint of sunrise. He focused on the line of light that crept through the curtains, feeling his head clear. "Wait. Did you just say 'both'? As in … Zondra's here too? The last thing I remember—"

"Yeah, buddy." Was it Chuck's imagination, or did Bryce's gaze slide away from his at the mention of Zondra's name? "She's just fine, thanks to you. Sleeping in the other room."

Sarah was okay … Zondra was okay … but— He came up on his elbows, a major tactical error. Sucking in his breath, he fell back onto the pillow. "What about Ellie?"

"Everyone's fine, Chuck. Relax." For once, Bryce actually sounded soothing. "Casey's providing overwatch for your family. We'll find a way to establish secure coms with him ASAP. It'll be the first order of business. Just take a deep breath."

It was hard to take a deep breath when he felt like he was repeatedly being stabbed in the shoulder, but Chuck tried his best. "Sorry … sorry. I guess I'm still a little shaken up after what happened. Everything was so surreal. One moment I was staring up at Sarah's face, sure I'd never get to see her, or anyone else again, and the next moment … well … here we are. What in the hell happened?"

Bryce's mouth flattened into a thin line. "You got shot, buddy."

"I know _that_." Chuck rolled his eyes. "After that."

"There is too much," Bryce said, in Inigo Montoya's ridiculous accent. "Let me sum up."

"Did you—did you just quote _The Princess Bride? _Now I know I'm losing it." The Bryce Chuck had known would sooner have worn a ball gown to a field assignment than sit through that particular Rob Reiner flick. "Did I wake up in an alternative universe where you're a nerd?"

"Shut up, Bartowski. There was a girl once—she made me watch—oh, never mind." Chuck could've sworn Bryce was blushing. "Here's the sitch. You dove in front of Zondra and took the bullet meant for her. Longshore shot you, Zondra shot him, she and Sarah got you off the roof and to your sister's apartment. Devon operated on you and saved your life, Beckman wanted you killed but Casey lied to her, Sarah told Graham she'd killed Zondra and let you die. Casey swore to protect you and yours forever and ever like the good soldier he is, everyone loaded you back into the Jeep, and here you are. _Capisce?"  
_

"Give me a moment." His brain ticked through the scenarios Bryce had outlined, trying to make sense of them. "Devon operated on me—where?"

"On Casey's kitchen table, apparently. Does it matter? He'd make a damned good field surgeon. Questions?"

"Not right now." Chuck was sure a thousand queries would occur to him, but he'd prefer to ask Sarah or Zondra—after all, they'd been there. "Thanks for filling me in."

Bryce made an impatient gesture. "Of course. Well, if you don't have more questions, how are you feeling? Is there anything I can do for you? Can I get you something? Just name it."

"Actually," Chuck said, "can you help me sit up a bit? Kinda feel like a turtle on its back here. And a glass of water would be great. My mouth—it's like I just won the saltine cracker challenge."

"Sure, man. You got it." Bryce leapt to his feet and was back in minutes with the water and a handful of pills. Setting them both down on the coffee table that he'd pushed out of the way to make room for the cot, he grabbed his pillow from the makeshift bed and held out his hand. "Come on, buddy. Let's get you upright. We need to get some water and meds in you."

"Meds?" Chuck said suspiciously, eyeing the pills.

"Just some high-dose ibuprofen for now. They're anti-inflammatory and should help with the pain. We'll get you something better when the stores open, and maybe a sling for that arm too."

Chuck and Bryce locked arms in a forearm handshake as Bryce pulled slowly, stuffing his extra pillow behind Chuck's back and head. It hurt like hell, but Chuck didn't see that he had a choice if he wanted to do anything but lie flat on his back.

Once he was settled again and the waves of pain subsided, Bryce handed him the glass of water and four Advil and sat back down on the cot. "You gave us all one hell of a scare. Especially Sarah. Man, the look on her face—that woman's a goner, Chuck. I'm really happy for you two."

Chuck could only stare back as he remembered Bryce kissing Sarah in his own room. It still hurt thinking about it. He popped the Advil in his mouth and swigged water, doing his best to hide his feelings. No need to dredge that mess up all over again.

His thoughts must've been evident on his face anyhow, because Bryce's eyes clouded and he dropped his head. "I didn't know, Chuck—at Thanksgiving. I swear. How could I? But I'll admit, it was still a dick move. Hell, I shouldn't have even been there in the first place."

If Chuck had been more capable of movement, he would've squirmed. "It's okay, Bryce. We weren't anything to each other at the time. Just a handler and her asset."

"That's bullshit and you know it." Bryce's tone didn't brook contradiction.

After a moment, Chuck surrendered and gave a curt nod. His old friend still knew him well—and at this point, what difference did it make?

"Listen, Chuck," Bryce said, leaning forward again. "I've been wanting to talk with you for years now. I have so much I need to tell you—and apologize for."

There was a time when Chuck would have given almost anything to hear his former roommate say those words. Now, though, his head was spinning and he had bigger concerns—like where, exactly, he was and how he and Sarah were going to survive ... not to mention when he might see his sister again. "Bryce," he began, "we really don't have to—"

"No, Chuck. You deserve to know. You deserve to know about everything that happened between you and me at Stanford … and why." Bryce folded his arms across his chest, steeling his spine like a man who'd girded himself to do an unpleasant task and was determined to see it through, no matter the consequences.

Well, it wasn't like Chuck could escape. He was a captive audience—and this was a story he'd been waiting a long time to hear. "I'll admit, I'd like to know why my best friend stabbed me in the back," he said, adjusting his weight against the pillows in an effort to get more comfortable.

"I guess I should start at the beginning then." The words came tumbling out of Bryce's mouth like he'd rehearsed them—or like a cascade of water, jammed up behind a dam. "I'd already been recruited by the CIA before we met. I'd even been assigned a handler. And I thought I was hot shit, too. Big man on campus. I had all the ladies I could handle and I was learning how to be a real-life badass. Figured myself to be the next James Bond. A spy's life with adrenaline-fueled excitement." He gave Chuck a small, sad smile. "But then I met you … and you changed everything for me. Just being around you had me thinking about the morality of a thing, and not just its possibilities."

Great—he'd been Bryce's personal Jiminy Cricket. A whole lot of good it had done either of them. Taking another sip of water from the bottle Bryce had thoughtfully put within reach of his left hand, Chuck waited for his former friend to continue.

"I know I didn't show it back then," Bryce said, drumming his fingers on his knee, "but you … you were like a mentor to me—the guy I wanted to grow up to be like. Sure, I knew a lot of folks and was popular and all that, but you made a real difference in the people's lives you touched."

"Yeah, me and Tiny Tim," Chuck muttered. Bryce ignored him.

"Then came Professor Fleming's class. That test on subliminal imagery—the one I said you stole the answers to—I knew it was a really a covert test for public consumption. I was warned by my handler. It was their way of gauging the mental capacity of the brain. They were looking for candidates for something they called the Omaha Project."

Hearing the name, Chuck flashed harder and longer than he could ever remember. It was even worse than when he'd flashed on Sarah's file—like icepicks were being driven into his skull from all sides. But when he came to, instead of pain, he had a sense of clarity.

"Oh, my God, Bryce. Omaha Project—that was the brainchild for the Intersect." He rubbed his forehead with his left hand, dispelling the lingering sense of the headache. "Who the hell is this Orion character? They're listed as the designer/creator for most of this stuff. Have you ever heard the name?"

Bryce's eyes narrowed. "Funny you should say that. It was someone code-named Orion that gave me the order to get you off Professor Fleming's radar. I never met them in person, but they had all my activation codes. Everything checked out. Their security clearances were as high as I'd ever seen. You were in real danger, according to the intel they shared with me. Something about your subliminal imagery test scores being off the charts. No one else had even come close. They were adamant that you'd surely be recruited into the CIA—not as an agent, or even an analyst, but as an expendable lab rat."

That damn test again. It was the bane of Chuck's existence. "Why would my test scores be so unusual? Is there something wrong with my brain?"

"I think it's quite the contrary," Bryce said. "Either way, I had to act fast. I'd already intercepted Fleming's message to you, requesting a meeting, and went in your place. When I arrived, I pleaded with Fleming to ditch your results, but he wouldn't budge—said it was his duty to report the test's findings. He said your results made you the ideal candidate for the Omaha Project and told me you were in, no matter what."

Chuck had already seen most of this on Fleming's recording that they'd retrieved from Stanford, but hearing the complete story from Bryce's perspective put it in a whole new light. There Chuck had been, going to class, dating Jill, psyched to graduate with honors—and totally oblivious to the fact that all this drama had been playing out behind his back. He felt like an idiot all over again.

"So," he said slowly, "you rescued me from the Omaha Project out of a desire to safeguard my well-being? I'm confused. After everything that's transpired, something's not quite adding up."

Bryce cracked his knuckles, a nervous habit Chuck had never seen him indulge in before—not that they'd spent all that much time together over the past few years. "The fact that your high retention rate of subliminal information was the key to their project—a military project, mind you—meant that they'd stop at nothing to have you. Your friends and family—no one would've been left off the table, leveraging their lives against you 'til you complied. I was afraid that would've destroyed you in the end. You were too good a person to be forced into that kind of life."

"I see. So you lied about me, betrayed me, ruined my chance for a decent future … because of how awesome I am?"

"It was the worst moment of my life, Chuck. You gotta believe me." There was a desperate edge to Bryce's expression. "When I look back now, I wish I could've thought of something—_anything_—else I could do, but at the time I didn't think I had any other choice. I knew if I accused you of cheating on the test, it would invalidate the scores, sparing you from recruitment. After some rather aggressive persuasion, I finally got Fleming to agree and go along with the plan."

Chuck wanted to draw a deep breath to steady himself, but he was sure it would hurt too much. "Bryce. We were best friends. Why didn't you just come to me—let me know what was going on?"

"Technically, it would have been illegal for me to tell you anything—even that I was an agent in training. I've tried over the years to tell myself that what I did to you was for other, more noble reasons, but in the end, I was simply … wrong."

The last word fell into the room like the impact from an asteroid. Bryce had done a lot of things during the brief time Chuck had known him—boast, score girls without trying, manipulate, destroy Chuck's future. One thing he'd never done, though, as far as Chuck could remember, was admit mistakes. Chuck stared at him.

"You want the truth?" The agent's voice broke. "I was an idiot and a sanctimonious asshole that didn't deserve the honor of having you call me friend. That's the only real reason I have. I'm so sorry, Chuck."

Bryce's brows furrowed. Then the mask he usually presented to the world—cool and indifferent—cracked in half as tears poured down his face. His old friend couldn't hold Chuck's gaze and dropped his head in shame, his shoulders slumped as sobs wracked his body.

Chuck had never seen Bryce even close to crying before; it was beyond unsettling. No matter what the guy had done to him, this was more than Chuck could take. He reached out and squeezed Bryce's knee. After a long moment, Bryce raised his head, a question in his eyes.

What was Chuck supposed to say? He felt psychologically and physically devastated—hollowed out. This conversation had been a long time coming, though, and Bryce was wrecked. Chuck had had no idea that the guy had been walking around carrying all of this baggage—that what he'd done to Chuck had torn him up this way. Certainly, Bryce had never given any clue. Was this how he lived his life, keeping secrets from the people he cared about the most, hiding anything that might reveal a fault line in his perfect façade—anything that might make him face the consequences of what he'd done to the people he loved?

Chuck thought it probably was. Looking at Bryce's tear-streaked face, he felt a flash of pity for the guy who'd once been closer to him than anyone in the world except his sister. "I appreciate you telling me all this," he said, trying to sound gentle. "I really do. It clears up a whole lot. I'm saddened you felt the need to take on all of those burdens on your own, but I guess I understand. I do have one question, though."

"Sure. Anything." Bryce scrubbed a hand across his eyes, pulling himself together.

"Well," Chuck said, hating to point out the obvious, "if you were so concerned about keeping me out of this life—a spy's life—why send me the Intersect?"

His eyes tearing up again, Bryce took a deep, controlling breath. "Fulcrum was closing in on the Intersect. It was, and still is, their end game. I was deep cover in their organization and agreed to be the one to steal it for them so I could keep it out of their hands. When everything went to hell in that NSA facility and I was on the run, I knew I couldn't trust anyone in the spy game."

"What else is new?" Chuck said. God, what a way to live.

Bryce flicked a quizzical glance his way, but barreled onward. "As far as I knew from what Orion'd told me, you were the only person in existence that could handle the Intersect in its entirety. I had already taken the steps on my PDA to send it to you if things went pear-shaped, but only as a failsafe. I know I could have just destroyed the computer, and sometimes I wish that I had. But that wouldn't have destroyed Fulcrum's ambitions, and the Intersect is still our best weapon against them."

"So you chose the mission over me." Chuck kept his voice even. "You chose defeating Fulcrum over keeping my life intact."

Grimly, as if accepting a life sentence, Bryce nodded. "When I was lying there bleeding out with Casey looming over me, I made the rash decision to implement the failsafe. I know I painted a target on your back when I did, and I truly hope someday you'll forgive me."

With his good hand, Chuck reached out once again and patted Bryce's arm. "Out of all the crazy things that've happened to me, I can honestly say I'm most thankful that you sent me that email."

Bryce's eyes sprang wide. "Thankful? Did you hit your head after you were shot? I just told you—I chose the mission over your life. If I hadn't, you'd be free right now—not stuck in a CIA safe house with your right side in shreds. Why aren't you furious with me?"

"Without that email," Chuck said, giving him a small smile, "I would've never met Sarah … or Casey even … and now Zondra. They're part of my family now and I love them all."

It took a second, but then the echo of Chuck's smile dawned on Bryce's face. It was a genuine grin, without any of his usual artifice or forced charm. "Well, it was my pleasure. If there's any more danger and intrigue you'd like me to throw your way, I'm your man."

"No thanks." Chuck shrugged the shoulder he could move. "I think I'm good."

"I'll bet." The smile faded, replaced by an expression Chuck couldn't quite read—amazement, maybe, tinged with a note of dismay. "I still can't believe you jumped in front of a bullet. What in the hell were you thinking?"

Chuck opened his mouth, with no solid idea of what he was about to say. What came out surprised him—but it also felt right … like coming home to a place he never thought he'd see again. "That Zondra's one of my best friends, Bryce. Just like you."

OoOoOoOoO

Pressed against the bathroom door in the darkness of the narrow hallway, Zondra pinched her upper arm to make sure she wasn't dreaming. She'd gotten up to get a glass of water, heard Bryce and Chuck talking, and stalled, to give them privacy. She'd expected Bryce to read Chuck the riot act for jumping in front of that bullet—and maybe for him to give Chuck a few more details about the terrible decision-making process that had led him to saddle Chuck with the Intersect. Instead, what she'd heard had stunned her.

Bryce had admitted he was wrong. He'd begged for Chuck's forgiveness. He'd _cried_, for God's sake.

It could be a trick, some kind of manipulative gambit—but Zondra didn't think so. He'd sounded sincere, riddled with regret. Then again, deception was his stock in trade.

He'd confessed how massively he'd screwed up. He'd kept a photo of himself and Zondra in his bedside table—a photo he'd obviously looked at multiple times. He'd quoted _The Princess Bride_, for Christ's sake … a movie they'd watched together.

None of this resonated with the Bryce Larkin she'd gotten to know at the Farm—or the one who'd betrayed his best friend twice over. Which begged the question—who the hell was he?

She flattened herself against the door, listening for all she was worth. Maybe Bryce had changed, and maybe he hadn't. But one thing was for sure—Zondra wasn't going to fall for his games, the way she had last time. This time she would be on guard. Chuck had been hurt enough; it wasn't going to happen again, not if she could help it.

Chuck's voice drifted down the hallway, answering the question of why he'd taken a bullet for her: _Zondra's one of my best friends, Bryce. Just like you.  
_

She couldn't hear Bryce's reply, but her muscles tensed, imagining what he was thinking. Chuck was a good person, built to forgive. It was that openness, that willingness to stay vulnerable, that made him so incredible—but it also meant that the people who loved him needed to stay vigilant.

Maybe Bryce was worthy of that forgiveness, and maybe he wasn't. Zondra would reserve judgment—and she would watch.

The glass of water forgotten, she faded into the shadows of the hallway, leaving the echoes of their voices behind.

* * *

A/N: This chapter is intended to paint the scene and set up everything going forward for a good while to come. During the six-month period between Seasons One and Two—Season 1.5?—we've decided to keep the same structure as we have in the previous chapters. We'll treat each arc as if it was an episode on the show, starting with 'Sarah vs the Vault.' Each arc will have between three to four chapters, spanning between two to three episodes. We're still up in the air about the number of episodes. Anything could happen! Since it's a six-month time period, we felt it'd be more fluid to tell the story in a dynamic way, leading us into Chuck vs the First Date with a lot more backstory. Also, since Team Bartowski has a whole new makeup, the only thing that'll be recognizable about First Date will be the bad guys. Should be a lot of fun to write.

A/N #2: You guys have really been coming through with your PMs, reviews, and suggestions. Please keep them coming! We can't express enough how much they've bolstered our spirits. As you might have noticed, our turnaround time between updates has shortened quite a bit, although we have to admit, not having to ride the rails of canon and being able to play in our own sandbox helps too. But in the end, we're performers, as are all the writers here. The audience's feedback is key.

A/N #3: A final thought. With the holidays in just a few days and family and friends showing up at the house, we won't be able to update the next chapter until after Christmas at the earliest. So, from our family to yours, may you find the true spirit of the season and may it fill your heart with love and joy.

As always, thanks for reading.


	16. Thunderclap

Chapter Sixteen … in which Sarah faces the harsh reality that she could lose everything and Casey and Ellie get to know one another better.

Warning: This chapter contains a scene that some might find disturbing. While we don't believe it crosses into the 'mature' category, it's not for children. Parental discretion is advised.

Disclaimer: We don't own Chuck…

* * *

**Chapter 16: ****Thunderclap  
**

As the San Franciscan sun poured through the front window of the safe house's living room, Sarah sat at the far end of the couch by Chuck's feet, her legs tucked beneath her body, sipping coffee. The house was quiet, other than the occasional rattle of pots and pans; Bryce was cooking everyone a makeshift breakfast as Zondra took her shower. Sarah savored the silence, as well as the company. This was the first time she and Chuck had had a moment to themselves since their drive from the Buy More to the NSA warehouse … before everything went to hell.

He smiled at her, his expression filled with adoration—and something decidedly more carnal. Sarah returned the favor. When he'd been lying on that rooftop, bleeding out, she'd thought she'd never get a chance to kiss him again, much less make love with him the way they had in those few stolen hours in her apartment. She loved this man so much and here he was—not only alive and well, but looking at her as if he'd like nothing more than to take her back to the bedroom and show her just how much he'd missed her, Bryce and Zondra's presence be damned. She wasn't sure how he planned to manage with his shoulder the way it was, but Chuck was innovative; he'd think of something. Desire radiated through her body as she stared back, white-hot … smoldering.

Before she could say or do anything about it, a thunderclap tore through the house as the back door was ripped from its frame. A swarm of men in black BDUs charged through, all carrying suppressed M4 carbines.

Sarah jumped to her feet, but it was no use. There were too many of them. When Bryce darted out of the kitchen, two men threw him to the ground and subdued him, pressing a rifle to the back of his head. Three more men stormed down the hall leading towards the bathroom. They smashed open the door, and Sarah could hear Zondra screaming. To her horror, the sound was suddenly silenced by the _thwat, thwat, thwat_ of suppressed gunfire.

The same three men shortly emerged from the hallway … alone. A frisson of misery ran through Sarah. If Zondra was still alive, someone would have stayed behind to watch over her. It was standard operating procedure in a breach situation. Zondra was gone, and Sarah had never had the chance to tell her that she believed she was innocent—that she wished she hadn't been so quick to abandon their friendship. She'd made a snap judgment and lost one of the people who mattered most to her … but she'd always thought she'd have a chance to make it right. Now that opportunity had vanished.

Eerie silence pervaded the house as the men stood there with their guns trained on Bryce, Sarah, and Chuck. Then someone standing in the entranceway cleared their throat. Sarah's heart plummeted as she watched Director Langston Graham stroll in, hands clasped behind his back. He scanned the room, assessing the havoc his men had just reaped. A smug smile lined his face—until his eyes found Sarah's. The smile morphed into a scowl that chilled Sarah to her bones.

He stepped towards her, his eyes blazing. "You've been a very busy girl, _Agent_ Walker."

The time for pretending was over. Zondra was dead; Bryce's life was in grave danger; and God knew what Graham had planned for Chuck. Her mind raced, trying to find a way out of this situation, but for once, she came up blank. Graham had had a hand in training her—he would anticipate her moves and countermoves and have plans in place to foil them. She was trapped … helpless.

She saw the recognition of her realization in Graham's eyes, a moment before satisfaction suffused his features. His smug expression pushed her over the edge. "Fuck you, you piece of shit," she snarled.

"Now, now." Graham patted her on the shoulder. "There's no need for any of that. It's not my fault you turned out to be a traitor to your country."

Sarah didn't respond to his jab. He would twist anything she said, using it as a weapon. She just stared back at him with death in her eyes.

"Before we continue with our little chat," Graham said, as cheerfully as if they were enjoying a nice meal rather than standing in the middle of what was likely to become a massacre, "I'd like to have a little more … privacy. Please say goodbye to Agent Larkin."

He nodded to the man looming over Bryce, who stood and fired twice into the back of his head. Bryce's body jerked, and his blood splattered everywhere, streaking Sarah's face. He jerked again, and then lay still.

In shock, Sarah looked down at the man who'd once been her lover, searching for any sign of movement. But there was none. Bryce lay crumpled on the floor, the pool of blood beneath his body spreading. No matter how much she wanted to, she couldn't deny the truth: He was dead.

"You son of a bitch!" She lunged at Graham, but had three men on her in seconds. They made short work of cuffing her hands behind her back and threw her down beside Chuck, who lay on the couch, eyes fixed on Bryce's body, frozen in fear. Tears streamed down his face, and his features showed all the helplessness Sarah felt. She was sure he'd realized what she had: This was it. This was the end.

Graham paced around them, hands still behind his back. "I admit, at first I was surprised you'd go against your orders the way you did. I thought we'd purged you of all your worthless emotions long ago. But I guess not. Oh, well. _C'est la vie._"Faster than Sarah had seen him move in years, he was by Chuck's side, grabbing Chuck's hair, yanking his head back. "Maybe this can be your final lesson. Your baptism, if you will. This is what happens—the price you pay for having emotional attachments."

Oh, God. "Please, sir. Let him go. Don't make Chuck pay the price for my mistakes. You can do anything you want with me … reassign me, torture me, kill me. I don't care. Just let him go." She heard the note of pleading in her voice, and didn't care. Her pride meant nothing to her if Chuck was dead.

"I think we've moved far beyond that, _Agent_ Walker, don't you? Like I told you before, Bartowski is too dangerous to be left alive. You may have grown soft—but I suffer from no such defect of character." He gave her a cold, cruel smile.

Sarah struggled viciously, but the men held her fast as Graham slipped a Bowie knife under Chuck's chin, holding it to his throat. Eyes wide in desperation, Chuck called out her name. He reached up, clawing and scratching to try and break free, but it was no use—Graham was too strong. With Sarah's name still on his lips, Chuck's scream turned to a gurgle. The blade sliced deep, gnawing its way into his larynx, choking off the sound.

Devastated, Sarah could only watch as Graham stepped back and Chuck's head swung forward—the life force leaving his body as his eyes bored into hers for the last time, then rolled to the back of his head.

Like Bryce and Zondra, he was gone.

A terrible coldness settled over Sarah, followed in short order by the wish for revenge. Even more than that, though, she craved mercy. She'd failed Chuck and now she was anxious to join him. Without him, there was no point in going on. She'd welcome her own death with open arms.

She twisted her head to look up at Graham, who stood, smiling, Chuck's blood dripping from his blade onto the floor. "Kill me, please."

"And get rid of such a beautiful weapon? I think not. No, _Agent_ Walker. I will not be denied my most effective tool. You will be reprogrammed with the new Intersect and we will win this war." Once again, Graham nodded to one of his men. The agent swung his rifle around and plunged it stock-first into her face … and white light engulfed her as her eyes sprang open.

Sarah shot upright in her bed, pressing a palm flat against her heart as it threatened to beat its way out of her chest. Sweat poured down her face.

A dream. It'd all been a terrible dream.

OoOoOoOoO

Surfacing from a deep sleep, Chuck gasped, struggling for air. Panic flooded him. Someone was leaning over him, careful not to touch his injured shoulder, his face gripped in their hands as their lips pressed against his—

_Their lips? _Chuck was fairly sure that neither the government nor Fulcrum's would-be assailants initiated their assaults by kissing their victims into helpless compliance. Besides, he'd know that strawberry lip gloss anywhere.

He blinked twice, bringing his world into focus. Sarah was sitting on the edge of the couch, her lips on his. These weren't the passionate kisses they'd shared before—or even the 'cover' kisses they'd flaunted in public before their romantic relationship had blossomed into something more genuine. No, these were desperate kisses—kisses in search of affirmation.

When she saw he was awake, she pulled back momentarily to gauge his alertness, then leaned in again, peppering his face with more kisses. Her eagerness was wonderful—but also perplexing. They'd been through so much together. Just recently, for instance, Chuck had almost died … and Sarah hadn't acted like this. What the hell was wrong now?

Struggling up to his elbows, he dodged the next smattering of kisses in favor of getting a good look at Sarah's face. Her expression was pained. There was such loss in those beautiful blue eyes of hers. It sent a chill down his spine.

"Sarah," he said, his voice husky from sleep, "what's wrong? Not"—he narrowly avoided another onslaught of kisses—"that I don't love what you're doing, but are you okay?"

She couldn't look him in the eye, and his heart tumbled in fear. He gauged the sounds in the house—the shower was running, and someone was clinking dishes in the kitchen. All normal morning sounds, and everyone accounted for. Which left—

"Wait. Was it a dream or something? What's got you so spooked? Sarah … please talk to me." He took one of her hands in his, and was alarmed to feel that she was shaking.

Her voice trembled when she spoke. "I thought …" The words trailed into an unintelligible mumble. Her hand gripping his, she tried again. "And then I thought …" She shook her head viciously, as if trying to purge the images from her mind's eye.

Chuck had never seen her like this, her emotions spiraling so dangerously out of control. Unsure of what to say, he lifted his free hand to brush her cheek, his fingers winding their way into her hair, and waited.

Finally, she drew one deep breath, then another. After a long moment, she met his eyes and smiled. "Hi," she said, her voice soft.

"Hi," he said in return, drawing out the word. He smirked at her, thinking of all those manic kisses.

"I'm so sorry. You're right, I did have a dream. A terrible one. I dreamed—" Color burned high on Sarah's cheekbones, and she swallowed hard. "I dreamed Graham slit your throat. You died, Chuck, right in front of me. He killed you and shot Bryce in the head. His soldiers murdered Zondra. No one was left alive but me. I was … I was alone."

Her voice broke on that last word, and the devastation in her eyes was painful to see. Sarah had lived so much of her life alone; now she had him, and friends, and in Ellie, even a family. He knew losing all that was truly one of her worst nightmares … especially if she felt she'd failed to save any of them.

"It was just a dream, baby." He stroked her hair in an effort to offer comfort. "I'm here, and you're here, and everyone's okay."

She turned her head, hiding a kiss in his palm. "I know I should just let it go … but you really did almost die, Chuck. What's left after that? What would be the point in going on?"

"Trust me. I know. I feel the same way—one hundred percent. But, Sarah, look at me … I'm fine. You and Zondra and Devon made sure of it. We have our own team now—and an awesome one at that." It was the simple truth. "Let's fight for what we have … not for what we're afraid of losing. If we're resigned to that—they win. It's what they want us to do. To sit in despair, waiting for them to close in. We're better than that. You're the best agent in existence … I'm the Intersect. We have the advantage."

He could see the tension seeping out of Sarah's shoulders. A grin spread across her face as Bryce stepped into the room, wearing an apron with flowers all over it and a grin of his own.

"I hate to interrupt such a poignant moment," he said, "but do you want your eggs over-easy, or—"

Sarah turned to face him. "Just cook 'em like you always do. Burnt and crispy. We'll deal with the fallout."

"Coming right up." He ducked back into the kitchen, leaving Chuck and Sarah staring at one another.

It was ridiculous to be jealous of the fact that Sarah knew how Bryce cooked breakfast. They'd been together for a while, of course, and they'd been partners for years. Still, the feeling was undeniably there, and Chuck had to fight to push it away. "Now that I think about it, I am kinda hungry," he said, forcing a smile. "I'm just not sure how to go about it yet. Hurts like hell to move."

Sarah's eyes narrowed, as if she could sense what he was feeling, but she let it go. "I'm sure breakfast in bed can be arranged—or in couch, as it were."

"Sounds great. Thanks."

She squeezed his hand. "At some point we'll need to figure out how to move you into one of the beds. If I'd been thinking more clearly last night, you'd be there right now."

He raised an eyebrow. "One of the beds? Anyone's in particular?"

"You know what I mean, you big goof." She leaned in closer to whisper into his ear. "And I've even thought of a way to get you _squeaky_ clean once you're there."

There was a gleam in Sarah's eye as she stood and sashayed into the kitchen, putting a little extra sway in her hips and throwing a knowing smile over her shoulder. She was an evil, evil woman.

As Chuck lay there, pondering all the possibilities of receiving a sponge bath from his girlfriend, Sarah helped Bryce finish making their breakfast.

OoOoOoOoO

Zondra wiped the foggy mirror clear with her towel and got a good look at herself. She looked as haggard as she felt. After overhearing Bryce and Chuck's conversation last night, she hadn't been able to sleep at all.

Chuck thought of her as family. He'd said he loved her—enough that he'd step in front of a bullet for her, laying down his life in the process. That revelation left her dumbstruck. It made her feel cherished and filled her with a warmth she hadn't felt since she was a little girl … at least before she'd lost her parents in that horrible fire.

The knowledge that Chuck loved her that much also scared the hell out of her, if she was being honest with herself.

Zondra was sure she didn't deserve that kind of love from such a wonderful man. Especially since she'd wasted so much time keeping him at arm's length because of stupid CIA rules and a silly schoolgirl crush she'd had since the Farm. She'd liked Chuck from the first time she'd laid eyes on him, but the view was always tainted with the thought that she could never fully give herself to him. She'd been a coward, and she was so tired of living her life that way. Alone. Always alone—even when she was with Bryce.

The more she thought about the picture she'd found of the two them together at the Farm, the madder she got. It looked like she wasn't the only coward in the bunch. To think that this whole time, Bryce'd been pining away, just like her—and for what? So he could share a bed with Walker—to help himself forget about the connection they'd once found with each other? Any kind of relationship with Bryce was now a dead-end road, fraught with too many complications to even consider.

While Zondra dried her hair and applied her makeup, she became even more determined to be patient with regards to Chuck. Whatever he needed, she'd make sure he had—even if that turned out to be Sarah. She owed him her life. She'd give him her heart. For now, it would be good enough to keep him safe. The only role Bryce would play in her decisions going forward would be based off his intentions towards his old roommate. She'd watch him closely. She'd protect Chuck from Bryce and anyone else that might cause him pain.

Turning out the bathroom light and making her way to the living room, Zondra breathed in the smell of bacon and freshly brewed coffee. Sure enough, there was a full breakfast spread waiting in the kitchen. Sarah, Bryce and Chuck were parked around the coffee table, already eating. After fixing her plate and pouring herself a cup of joe, she walked over to the couch and gave Chuck a questioning look. His mouth full, he just smiled and moved his feet enough to give her room to sit.

Sarah was in the recliner beside the couch, leaning forward over her plate. She paused with her fork halfway to her mouth when Zondra sat down, a single eyebrow raised. Bryce was sitting on the loveseat with a stack of files beside him. His gaze flicked toward Zondra and Chuck, then away, focusing on the papers in his lap. His obvious discomfort troubled her, but she pushed the feeling away. She hadn't done anything wrong, and if the four of them were going to live here together, she and Bryce needed to get used to coexisting in the same space—which meant getting beyond whatever awkwardness lingered between them. Beyond that, it wasn't as if Bryce had brought up the photo in his nightstand or the curious way he kept looking at her—as if there was so much he wanted to say, but he couldn't figure out how to go about it. She wasn't responsible for his emotional hang-ups. If he had something to share with her, he could damn well man up and open his mouth.

"How are you feeling, Chuck?" Zondra said, giving him the once-over. His color had vastly improved, and although he was eating gingerly with his left hand, his appetite seemed solid—a very good sign. "You had us all worried last night, but you're looking a lot better."

Chuck swallowed a mouthful of bacon and grinned at her. "Well, I was unconscious, wasn't I? I sure hope I look better than that. Truthfully, I'm not sure if I'm feeling better or just getting used to feeling like shit."

His smile softened the blow, but all three agents flinched. Zondra realized they all cared about him deeply, even Bryce—which was stellar when it came to Chuck's protection, but also made Chuck their Achilles heel.

Looking deep into his eyes, she could tell he was still in a lot of pain but was fighting hard to hide it from everyone … and failing miserably. Over the years Zondra had gotten used to dealing with what she couldn't help but think of as 'battle damage.' Chuck … not so much.

"We'll make a run to pick you up some more supplies, Chuck," Sarah said. "I'd like to get a sling for that arm, some antibiotics just in case, and maybe some topical anesthetic for your shoulder. We've got some heavy-duty pain meds in our kits, but we didn't want to give you anything stronger than Advil until you'd eaten and the anesthesia was out of your system. I can grab some hydrocodone in a bit if you need it."

He shifted his weight, trying to find a place to set his empty plate down. Both Sarah and Zondra moved to take it; Zondra yielded first, settling back into her seat. Chuck glanced between them, his expression quizzical. "Sounds like a plan, but first things first. Bryce, can we establish communications with Casey like we talked about? I need to let Ellie and Devon know I'm okay. I know they'll be worried sick."

"Don't worry, Chuck. I've got this," Sarah said, her fingers flying over her phone's keyboard. She frowned down at it, typed some more, paused again, and finally finished. A moment later, her cell buzzed in response, and she put it back down on the arm of the recliner. "All set. Casey and I established a secure line of communication a while back. I just gave him our sitrep. He'll let Ellie know as soon as it's safe."

Chuck gave her a grateful smile. "Thanks, Sarah."

"Don't thank me yet. He'll need to be careful with Beckman still looking for you. The old hag'll order Casey to question your family first thing." Sarah poked her eggs with her fork, regarding them with distaste. Zondra didn't blame her. The eggs were scrambled … at least, Zondra thought so. Mostly, they were scorched. How the hell did you burn scrambled eggs? Was it Walker who was this bad of a cook, or Bryce? God knew he'd never made her breakfast, back in the day.

Had he been making breakfast for Walker while the two of them were in San Francisco—and before that, when they were together? Zondra didn't want to feel jealous—she knew their relationship had been one of convenience—but she couldn't help but feel a frisson of envy all the same. God, this situation was so awkward.

Sarah and Bryce were both staring at her, their gazes narrowed, and she realized the sense of disquiet she felt must show on her face—or in her body language, which both of the other agents were adept at reading. She searched for another way to channel her irritation, and found it—after all, it wasn't as if she had far to reach. "So, the whole time you were here in San Fran, you were in contact with Casey?"

"I—" Sarah began, stabbing her fork into her eggs, but Chuck cut her off.

"Does that really matter, Z? Don't we have other things to worry about right now—like the fact that Graham thinks you and I've been murdered by Sarah, while Beckman searches high and low for us to make sure we're dead? And that's not even taking into account what Fulcrum's up to. Last we heard, they were closing in on me. What are we gonna do?"

The panic in his voice tore at Zondra's heart. She wanted to reassure him, but it wasn't her place—not with Walker here too. Besides, what could she really say?

To her surprise, Bryce leaned forward, placing a reassuring hand on Chuck's knee. "Calm down, buddy. You're safe here and we'll all make sure you stay that way."

"I'll second that," Zondra said, sliding her plate onto the coffee table. "But I'm tired of playing guessing games. It's too dangerous—too much is at stake. I need to know everything about the mission that you and Walker are on—the reason you've been ordered to go dark. What's Graham having you two do? What kind of exposure to Fulcrum are we under here?"

Sarah settled back in her chair, arms crossed over her chest. "You're right, Z. You both need to know everything, and the sooner, the better so no one's left in the dark should something happen. We're looking into a suspected Fulcrum cell and to keep everything looking kosher with Graham, we'll need to keep up appearances and continue on, business as usual. Bryce, give Chuck and Zondra our latest notes and briefings to bring them up to speed."

Bryce didn't argue. Instead, he handed her and Chuck one of the folders stacked next to him and then spent the next hour going over the contents in detail. Chuck flashed on almost everyone mentioned in the briefing, which alarmed Zondra. Who knew how these flashes affected his brain? How much could he take, on top of being shot and undergoing so much emotional stress?

Zondra drew a deep breath. No point in borrowing trouble—and besides, she wasn't going to infantilize Chuck the way Beckman and Graham had. He was a valuable part of their team, and right now, the knowledge that the Intersect provided him was a key way he could contribute. "So these rogue FBI agents—"

"Reeves and Channing. They're Fulcrum." Chuck tapped his temple. "Really bad people … surprise, surprise. It's not like Fulcrum employs folks who dress up like the Easter bunny or volunteer at nursing homes in their spare time."

"Right … Reeves and Channing." Crossing her legs at the ankle, Zondra stretched to relieve some of the tension in her back, then took a gulp of her coffee. At least _that _wasn't burnt. "Just to make sure I understand—you think they're receiving their intel and/or orders from Fulcrum through a safe deposit box at the Pine Street branch of the First Republic Bank here in town, and you've been tasked by Graham to basically 'rob a bank' and make a copy of what's found inside. Is that it?"

Sarah got to her feet, setting her mug and plate down on the coffee table. "In a nutshell, yes. But remember, we're fighting a two-front war here and there are other players to consider."

"I'm not following," Zondra said. "Sorry, lack of sleep. Elaborate, please."

Walker started to pace, the way she'd always done when she was working out a complicated situation. "Well, first there's Monica Whittaker. She's a former Air Force intelligence officer that Reeves had us follow when we first arrived—said she was suspected of trying to steal thousands of classified documents to sell to potential buyers. We now think she's just a patsy—a way for Fulcrum to get information on Nathan Page. They've been having some kind of torrid affair with one another."

"'Torrid affair'?" Zondra couldn't help but chuckle. "What, have you been reading romance novels when you're not out saving the world, Walker?"

Sarah shot her a dirty look. "If you'd heard the recordings we have, you wouldn't have to ask. Anyhow, Page may be key in helping us—in helping _you_, Chuck. He works for Donald Kerr, the Principal Deputy Director of National Intelligence. That's in the offices of the DNI—the same office Beckman and Graham report to. If we can turn him into an ally, it might be just what we're been waiting for."

"That's a big 'if,'" Zondra said. "What makes you think we can appeal to Page, or if we can even trust him?"

"It is a big _if_." Stacking his folders into a neat pile, Bryce turned to face her. "But he's a vulnerability. And right now, we need all of those we can get."

"Finally," Sarah said, stalking to the window and peering outside, "there's Troy Mason. He's a computer scientist who met with Page while he was here in town visiting Whittaker. He works with the NSA on projects involving quantum cryptography and is supposedly the best in his field when it comes to encryption."

At the word 'encryption,' Chuck perked up, like a bird dog going on point. He didn't say anything, though, and Sarah let the curtains fall back into place before she continued.

"We also think he might be the target for something Fulcrum's calling Project Janus. We heard about Janus through monitoring Reeves' and Channing's communications. Chatter's also been picked up regarding Fulcrum's desire to gain access to secure NSA facilities. Our analysts think that Project Janus is Fulcrum's plan to go after the raw data in these facilities, most likely with the intention of creating an Intersect of their own. Any data held at one of those facilities or being transported to and from them would require our best encryption."

"Janus?" Chuck said, and Sarah came to a halt in front of him. "Isn't he the two-faced god of gateways, or something?"

"Very good, Chuck. I had to look that one up myself." Walker ran her hand through his hair with a casual affection that sent a pang through Zondra's stomach. The tenderness in that simple gesture—and the peace that suffused Chuck's features when Walker touched him—made Zondra realize how deep the connection between the two of them ran. How could she compete with that? More to the point, why would she want to? Sarah made him happy, which should make Zondra happy. She just wished it didn't hurt so damn much.

She glanced away, which didn't help. Her eyes fell on Bryce, who wasn't looking at Chuck and Sarah. Instead he was looking at _her_, regret and longing clear in his eyes.

Frustration surged inside her. She wanted to throw her coffee cup through the window. Or at his head. Really, either would do.

"Hey," Chuck said, and both Zondra and Bryce started guiltily. He pointed at himself with his good hand. "Come to me with all your obscure informational needs. Nerd, remember?"

"How could we forget?" Bryce's voice was gruff. His gaze slid away from Zondra, and he busied himself with restacking the files—which were already perfectly organized.

Zondra didn't blame him. If she had files to stack, she'd be messing with them too. Instead, she turned back to the business at hand. "So what are the holdups with the bank job?"

"We have a man on the inside," Bryce said, looking just as pleased as she was to be leaving dicey emotional territory behind. "A real tech wiz. You'd love him, Chuck. His name's Jackson Sanders and he's the Signals Intelligence Analyst for the FBI's field office here in town. He's been working with us almost from the very beginning."

Sarah sat back down in the recliner, hands folded in her lap. "Graham's already signed off on him and he's really good at what he does."

"But as good as he is," Bryce continued, "he's not been able to circumvent the bank vault's security. It's state-of-the-art from what Jackson's told me, and probably why Fulcrum chose this bank in the first place." Bryce shook his head in frustration. "If we can't get past the security, our only other option is a high-noon-style robbery during daytime hours when the electronic locks aren't engaged. Obviously, the danger to the public leaves that option off the table."

That eager bird-dog look was back on Chuck's face. "When can I meet him? Jackson, I mean. Maybe we can put our heads together and figure something out."

Did the man have no sense of self-preservation at all? "No, Chuck," Zondra said, fighting the urge to roll her eyes. "I don't think that's a smart move. I'm not crazy about the idea of anyone else knowing you're alive, much less sitting here exposed in a San Francisco safe house. The fewer people that get to see you, the better."

"That's not how we're gonna win this thing, Z. We can't just tuck me away and hope for the best." There was steel in Chuck's voice, and for a moment she got a glimpse of the guy who hadn't hesitated to put himself in the path of a bullet to save her life. "I may be on the run, but I still have skills I can contribute. If Bryce and Sarah trust this guy, then I will too. Plus without the Intersect on the playing field, we may be giving away the one edge we have to come out on top."

"Jackson's safe, Z." Sarah leaned forward, emphasizing her point. "I'd bet my life on it."

Zondra matched her stare for stare. "Sure. But would you bet Chuck's?"

For once, Walker didn't have a snarky comeback. Her mouth snapped shut and she just sat there, her eyes fixed on Chuck's face. Zondra waited one beat, two—they all did—but Walker didn't say a word.

"That's what I thought," Zondra said, and there was an edge to her words.

Color flooded Sarah's face, and she pushed to her feet again. Before things could escalate, though, Bryce stepped in once again—which wasn't like him, or at least the guy he'd been back in the day. Back then, he'd been the first to take a tense situation to the next level.

"All right. Let's all just take a breath and put a pin in this for the moment," he said, standing up. "Sarah … how about you and I go get those supplies and let this simmer for a while?"

Sarah looked back and forth between Zondra and Chuck a few times, but then she nodded and grabbed her keys. As she made her way towards the door, Bryce walked over and placed his hand on Zondra's shoulder. The touch was casual—but also achingly familiar.

All he said, though, was, "Keep an eye on the surveillance and let us know if you see anything suspicious. We'll only be a few blocks away."

"Don't worry," Zondra said, shrugging out from under his hand. "I'll keep him safe."

Bryce gave her a sad half-smile. "Of that, I have no doubt."

He followed Sarah out. The door clicked shut behind them, leaving Zondra and Chuck alone.

OoOoOoOoO

Casey finally pulled his Suburban into the parking lot at Westside Medical. He'd spent the past half hour checking his rearview mirror, making sporadic lane changes and turns to make sure he'd get there unnoticed. The last thing he wanted was to be followed. So far, so good, but he wouldn't put it past Beckman to have him watched just as closely as the Bartowski clan. She didn't trust anyone, which made her highly paranoid and especially dangerous.

After receiving Walker's update about their safe arrival and Chuck's improving condition, Casey had breathed a sigh of relief. He'd been on pins and needles for the past twenty-four hours and hadn't slept or eaten much. It still plagued him that Bartowski had been taken under his watch. Whenever he closed his eyes, he saw the kid lying in the back of Rizzo's Jeep, his shirt soaked with blood. If Chuck had died because that bastard Longshore'd gotten the drop on him, Casey would have been haunted by that image for the rest of his life.

The good news came as a temporary reprieve. Now that he knew Chuck was all right, he could move on to the next step—passing along the news to Bartowski's sister, for whom Casey was now responsible. Devon was still at home, but Ellie'd left early for a shift at the hospital. The timing was perfect—it gave Casey the opportunity to talk with her alone, minus the watchful eyes of Echo Park's surveillance, which would be under hyper-scrutiny from now on. There was no doubt in the NSA agent's mind that Burbank and all of the surrounding areas would soon be crawling with additional minions who were under Beckman's thumb. The Intersect was a game changer and Beckman would stop at nothing to either have Chuck back under her control or bury him where he stood. There'd be no in between.

Making his way through the hospital's atrium, Casey checked the departmental map on the wall. There it was, right between the Nelson Ward and Nuclear Medicine—the Neurosciences Unit. That'd be where he'd find Ellie and he was a little apprehensive about doing so.

Casey made no bones about it, at least to himself: On some level, Ellie Bartowski scared the shit out of him. She told it like it was and held nothing back. Exhibit A—her little display at Thanksgiving when she'd caught Bryce kissing Sarah in Chuck's room. Not only was she a brilliant neurologist who had charm and grace, but her wit was as sharp as Chuck's without the impediment of Bartowski's damned lady-feelings. In so many ways, she was the perfect woman … if only he was fifteen years younger.

The moment the thought entered his head, he wanted to punch himself in the face. What the hell was the matter with him? This wasn't the time to be daydreaming about Bartowski's sister, even on a hypothetical level. Maybe seeing Walker and Bartowski together—and the damned googly eyes that Rizzo'd been making at Chuck—had done something to Casey's brain. He didn't need to be thinking about theoretical romantic prospects—no matter how ridiculous they were—when he'd done such a crappy job of protecting Chuck. Besides, history showed he was much better at bashing skulls than hearts and flowers. There was no room in his life for Hallmark movie distractions. He needed to keep his head in the game, particularly now.

Following the image of the map he'd committed to memory, he focused on what was important—finding Ellie and passing on Sarah's message. As he rounded the last corner and glanced down the hallway, there Ellie stood in her white lab coat and scrubs, speaking with a colleague. She must've sensed his presence, because she looked up, straight at him. Her emerald-green gaze skewered him, and it was all he could do not to shift his weight like some damned recruit who'd been caught out.

Handing a clipboard to the other doctor, Ellie marched over to stand right in front of Casey, hands on her hips. "John, don't you dare come in here to deliver me more bad news. I won't have it."

Casey shuddered to think what she would've done if he did have something awful to convey. They were in a hospital, after all—_her_ hospital—with a multitude of sharp objects close at hand. "It's nothing bad," he said, lowering his voice to be sure they wouldn't be overheard, "but I do have news. Is there someplace private where we could talk?"

She didn't look any less skeptical—but she did remove her hands from her hips, which Casey took as a good sign. "Sure. My office is right down the hall, and we're coming up on my break."

He shook his head. "Not your office. Somewhere that's high security—not accessible to the general public."

Maybe some women would've been excited about being inducted into an underground world of spies and government conspiracies. Ellie, on the other hand, just looked disgusted—and exhausted. "More secrets and intrigue. I guess it's always going to be like that from now on, huh?"

"I'm afraid so," Casey said with genuine regret. He'd never felt this way before about an assignment, but if he could've done so safely, he would've walked right out of the Bartowskis' lives and left them alone. Unfortunately, right now he was the only safeguard Ellie and Devon had. They needed him, and he just hoped he'd be up to the task. The only thing worse than explaining to Ellie why Chuck had died on his watch would be telling Chuck and Sarah how he'd let Beckman get hold of Ellie and the kick-ass field surgeon who'd saved Chuck's life.

Ellie stood for a moment, deep in thought. Then she squared her shoulders, resigned. "I have just the place. Follow me."

Through twists, turns, and many door scans, Casey found himself in a small room that seemed to hum—like everything was vibrating. "Where are we?" he said, spinning to look around.

A small smile curved Ellie's lips. "Right beside us are five MRI machines. The RF shielding for any MRI room prevents radio frequencies from entering into the MRI scanner and distorting the image. This room is perfect for ensuring we're not overheard."

His eyes widened. She was right—the room was perfect. He couldn't have done a better job himself. But how she'd come up with this solution on such short notice—now that was impressive. "What the—" he said, at a loss for words.

"What can I say? My dad was an engineer. Maybe it's in the blood or something." She shrugged, dismissing his reaction. "Now what's the news?"

Casey's instincts had been accurate—he was right to be intimidated by Ellie. Smart, savvy, and strategic … the woman was a force to be reckoned with. He was just glad they were on the same side. Fighting the urge to salute under the weight of her clear-eyed stare, he fumbled for his phone.

"You probably want to read this yourself. It's from Sarah to you. She sent it to me for security reasons, but the message is yours." He handed the phone to her, and waited as she read the words he'd already memorized.

_Dear Ellie,  
_

_I wanted you to know that we've all arrived safely and Chuck's looking and feeling much better. We both send our love and sincere apology for not being there with you. I'll try and find a better means of communication as soon as possible, but for now, I can think of no better emissary for our first message to one another. Stay the course and trust in John. I do … and so does Chuck.  
_

_Your sister,  
_

_Sarah  
_

_P.S. Try not to worry. I still remember the promise I made to you.  
_

Ellie wiped her eyes and handed the phone back. "Chuck and Sarah trust you—which means I will too. But this is going to be hard on me, John. My family's on the lam because our own government wants them dead."

As difficult as the past few weeks had been—and as much as it'd tried Casey's faith in the people he'd dedicated himself to serving—he couldn't bring himself to believe that the entire United States government was corrupt. If that was the case, then his whole career—his whole _life_—had been a lie. This mission had changed him in ways he'd never expected … but he still believed in his country, even if what he'd placed his faith in was an idea that he'd have to fight to uphold.

"It's not our government, Ellie," he said, shoving his phone into his pocket. "It's just two power-hungry pricks that've lost their way. I'm ashamed to've worked for them, but take Beckman and Graham out of the mix, and who knows—maybe we can actually make a difference. The point is to get that thing out of your brother's head. On that day—when we can come clean about who he is and what he's done—no one will look at him other than as a patriot and a hero. That's how I see him and so should you—not that I would ever presume to tell you what to do."

Now it was Ellie's turn to be speechless. She looked into Casey's eyes for a long moment, and he had the unmistakable sense that she was looking _through _him. Finally she said, "I'll have to take your word for it. So, where are they?"

"I have no idea. We never discuss location. Keeps any damage compartmentalized. Plausible deniability, and all that."

Frustration loomed in Ellie's eyes. "What now, then? What's our next move? I hate being helpless. Feels like we can't do anything from here."

"We can do something," Casey said, "but it's risky."

She stood up straight. "My little brother is risking his life. If it'll help him, I'll do whatever I can, and I know Devon would too. What do you have in mind?"

"Well," Casey said, weighing his words, "you and Devon are now persons of interest. Your life will be closely monitored for the foreseeable future. Sorry, Ellie, but it's the truth. Their surveillance just expanded to concentrate on both of you."

"Closely monitored." Her hands were back on her hips. "What exactly does that mean?"

"Your phones, cars, and places of work will be bugged, most likely by me. I'll let you know where and when I place them and periodically sweep for bugs I didn't plant so we'll have no surprises—but you'll both need to watch what you say—even to each other. We'll need to meet here at a set time every week for updates."

He examined her face for signs of indignation—but there were none. All he saw in her eyes was a fierce determination to keep Chuck safe. "I don't like it, but it's what I expected. As long as Devon and I don't say anything untoward, we should be all right. What's the risky part?"

Drawing a deep breath, Casey outlined what he had in mind. "I need you and Devon to play along—help me leave a false trail that suggests Chuck would definitely make contact with one of you, at some point … that he'll still be in the area if he's not already dead. It'll justify my continued presence here in Burbank and keep Beckman's sights set on you and Devon, not Chuck."

"We can do that." A faint line appeared between Ellie's brows—what Casey's father, long ago, had called the 'I want' line. His mother had also had that particular wrinkle … and she'd been every bit as goal-oriented as Ellie. She'd had the same knack of getting what she wanted, even when no one else thought it was possible … and the longer Casey knew Ellie, the more certain he was that she fell into the same category. "Just tell me what you need us to do. But are you sure focusing on us will be enough to keep the bad guys away from Chuck?"

"For a while, at least, yes. And when it doesn't anymore, we'll figure out another strategy." He stuffed his hands into his pockets, hating the fact that the best approach was to use Ellie and Devon as sleight-of-hand bait. Chuck would detest the idea … but Chuck wasn't here. He'd charged Casey with protecting his family, and Casey would fulfill the brief. All the same, his responsibilities still extended to Chuck as well. Keeping all three of them safe would require a delicate balancing act. Lucky for him, Ellie was definitely up to the challenge.

"Make no mistake, this is dangerous," he told her. "Still, neither of you are national assets—just links to one. Better that you should be under a microscope than to have Beckman get any ideas about launching a manhunt outside of Burbank for your brother. I promised Chuck I'd keep you and Devon safe, and I will—but I also have to protect Chuck. I've thought it all through, and this is the best option. I swear to protect all of you with everything I have."

To his shock, Ellie's eyes filled with tears again. Then she flung herself at Casey, wrapping her arms around him with such force, he could barely breathe. "Thank you," she said, burying her face in his chest. "Thank you for caring about Chuck, and for looking out for us. Thank you for risking your job and your life. None of us will forget it."

Her breathing hitched, and Casey felt his shirt grow wet with her tears. He wanted desperately to detach himself, but she clung to him with surprising strength, and he didn't have the heart. Thank God Walker and Rizzo couldn't see him now—big, bad John Casey, helpless in the face of the most intense onslaught of lady-feelings the world had ever seen. They'd never let him live it down.

Awkwardly, he patted Ellie's back. "It's okay, Ellie. It'll be all right."

She didn't say anything, just hung onto him like a barnacle and kept crying. What did people do in these situations? He had no clue, and just kept patting. If only she had some kind of 'disengage' button, like most weapons he'd handled. Armed combat was far easier than dealing with other people's emotions—even when the person in question seemed to be crying out of a sense of gratitude. Why would someone do that? Couldn't she just say 'thank you' and move on?

And what did it mean that he _wanted _her to feel better—that her good opinion and peace of mind mattered to him? That he felt that way about both Bartowski siblings, and Walker and Rizzo too? His inner circle was getting way too big for comfort. Usually it was John Casey, party of one.

Ellie finally released her death grip and smiled up at him. Her eyes were still glossy, but she wasn't crying anymore. "I'm so glad Sarah sent you as her emissary," she said, squeezing his hand before stepping away. "You're a good man, John. Thank you."

"My pleasure, Ellie. Same day and time, next week? I'll meet you here."

"Sure." She tugged her scrubs back into order and ran the pads of her fingers beneath her eyes, wiping away her smudged eyeliner. "In the meantime, see you 'round the courtyard, neighbor."

He let her leave first, then followed her out of the small, humming room a minute or two later. Phase One of his plan was complete. Now, to report in to Beckman.

On the drive back to Echo Park, he dialed Beckman's number. She answered at once, sounding simultaneously annoyed to hear from him and as if she'd been expecting his call.

"Report, Major," she said.

_Well, hello to you too, you unscrupulous, scheming, murderous bitch. _"I talked with Ellie Bartowski. She says she has no idea where Chuck might be. I asked several times and in a variety of ways, but she maintained her ignorance."

Beckman made the aggravated sound that meant she was dissatisfied with her subordinates' approach. "I might imagine that she wouldn't be overly motivated to disclose her brother's whereabouts to John Casey, Buy More lackey. Perhaps you need to employ some more … aggressive … leverage."

"With all due respect, I think blowing my cover at this juncture would be an error, General. And there's no way for me to explain an intense interest in the asset's whereabouts without revealing that I'm anything other than a glorified stockboy." He kept his voice expressionless, even as his hands clenched the wheel. "Still, I don't think she's telling the truth. Something seems … off about her story. I think she knows more than she's letting on."

"I'm sure she does." Beckman managed to imbue those four syllables with the unmistakable sense that she believed Casey to be an idiot. "Any bright ideas for getting her to confess?"

"I think we need to expand surveillance on Ellie as well as Devon Woodcomb. They'll slip up, and then we'll have the clue we need to locate and put down the asset."

There was a tense silence as Beckman considered his suggestion. He waited her out, half his attention on the road and half on what he'd do if she vetoed the idea. At last she said, "The asset has outlived his usefulness, Major. He's turning out to be more trouble than he's worth. We are clear on that, correct?"

"As we discussed the other day, General, we are absolutely clear. I believe this is the most direct path toward that goal."

She was quiet for another long moment. "Acceptable, Major—for now. We'll expand the surveillance and see if his sister or Woodcomb talks. Maybe Bartowski's dead, and maybe he's not. If he isn't, every second we don't know where he is is a second he could be in Fulcrum's hands. If your approach doesn't yield results in short order, we'll take another route that will require more … direct … involvement on your part."

"Understood," he said, and she disconnected—as usual—without saying goodbye.

He drove the rest of the way home with his mind whirring a thousand miles an hour. He'd bought them some time—but how much? He'd need to come up with a backup plan, and soon.

Thinking about how he'd communicate this to Walker, he parked the Suburban and made his way into the courtyard. God, he needed a beer and to decompress for a little while. Maybe watch a show on the History Channel or something. Either way, he saw some quality time with his TV coming up—and maybe a couple of those disgusting Hot Pockets, if he had any. Then he'd figure out what to do next.

He was doing a mental inventory of his freezer when someone stepped out of the shadows by the alleyway. His hand had already dropped to the weapon concealed at his waist when he registered the figure's familiar shape—but there was no way. It couldn't be.

Casey stopped and stared, his brain grinding to a halt. His mouth opened, but no words came out.

"Hi, John," the figure said.

He found his voice—hoarse with surprise, but functional. All that came to mind was her name, but that was enough.

"Ilsa?"

* * *

A/N: We'd like to apologize to anyone that felt the first scene in this chapter was repugnant. We agree, but also felt the need to shine a light on what was going on in Sarah's psyche after almost losing Chuck the way she did. We felt she'd be traumatized after everything that'd happened and her fear of losing everyone she cared for would manifest itself in her subconscious. Many of the characters on the show have abandonment issues, but Sarah in particular is having a hard time adjusting to being in a loving relationship—especially when faced with the possibility of losing it. In the end, we thought her nightmare would only harden her resolve to keep Chuck safe and have her make more cautious decisions moving forward. The Ice Queen is melting. Trust us, it was just as hard to write as it probably was to read.

A/N #2: We've stepped out of our comfort zone while writing all this AU stuff—but we're really enjoying it. Your opinions and ideas go a long way. Please leave your reviews and let us know what you think.

As always, thanks for reading.


	17. Cattywampus

Chapter Seventeen … in which Chuck finds his footing, Sarah makes a decision, Zondra shows her tender side, Bryce gets flustered, and Casey is floored by a startling revelation.

This chapter finishes setting the stage for many chapters to come. Our characters' time on the run is just beginning, and they're about to face some of their greatest challenges yet.

Disclaimer: We don't own Chuck…

* * *

**Chapter 17: ****Cattywampus****  
**

"Ilsa?"

His dignity took a nose dive, and John Casey—AKA 'Sugar Bear'—nearly collapsed into a puddle at her feet. The rollercoaster ride that'd been his life for the past few weeks had just geared up for its final loop-de-loop and plummet. It was an apt analogy—he felt that same plunging sensation in his stomach, the sense that he was poised at a great height, about to fall.

And—just like riding a rollercoaster—he felt an equal amount of excitement and trepidation. Had she come here to be with him … or to unload yet another life-shattering revelation that would force him to reevaluate his existence?

Ilsa wasted no time launching herself into his arms. He held her tight, feeling her heart thudding rapidly against his chest. A shiver ran through her body when he squeezed her tighter still … as if she was searching for confirmation that he was happy to see her again and he'd responded how she'd hoped he would. There was a story here—one he was anxious to hear, but all in good time. For now, he'd just savor their reunion and bask in her presence. She was back and that was all that mattered.

Then the crying started, and he had to rethink his strategy. What was it with these damned emotional women today? It was getting out of hand—especially because both Ellie and Ilsa were people he respected, and if they were in tears, he was sure there was a good reason ... even if, in this case, he had no clue what it might be. Was Ilsa crying because she was happy to see him? Because she had a devastating piece of information to impart? Because this was the last time he'd ever lay eyes on her, before she got reassigned to Antarctica to spy on penguins? How the hell was he supposed to know these things? He needed a crystal ball—and a freakin' box of tissues.

He also needed to get inside. He'd already have to edit this part of the courtyard's surveillance, and their conversation needed to stay private—this time, for personal reasons.

Casey released his grip, gently pushing Ilsa back. Her face fell—but then steadied as he grabbed her hand, pulling her toward his apartment. Once they were through the door, he walked over to the couch with Ilsa and gestured for her to sit. Tissues weren't something the Major ever had on hand, so he snagged a couple of napkins and handed them to her so she could wipe her eyes. Then he grabbed two snifter glasses and the rest of the bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue he'd opened months ago. It was time to allow himself to feel again.

He poured them each three fingers and sat down on the couch next to Ilsa, waiting.

Like Ellie, Ilsa was direct. She didn't make him wait long. "I guess I should start by telling you why I'm here," she said, crumpling her napkins and setting them down on the couch next to her.

Casey grunted in the affirmative.

She drew a deep breath and looked him in the eye. "After delivering Federov to Interpol, I reported back for reassignment. I was so tired of everything by then. I was hoping for something a little more intriguing and a little less … demeaning—especially after you and I'd found each other again. I'd paid my dues and if I had to go back undercover, I wanted to make a difference while I could. I'm sure you know what I mean."

"I do," Casey said, but didn't comment further. Maybe it would've made it easier for her if he'd expounded, shared his own experiences—but that wasn't what this conversation was about, and the less he said, the more she might tell him.

"Anyway, there I was … in front of Director Brochand himself … waiting for him to come through for me after everything I'd done for the DGSE, and the man actually had the nerve to try and hand me another long-term seduction mission. This one even more untoward than the last."

Maybe Casey should've kept talking after all … because their little chat had taken a turn with which he was unprepared to cope. First he'd wound up underneath a bed while Ilsa played the ingénue for the drunken lout she was prepared to marry—and now this? He picked up his glass and knocked back a healthy gulp, then another. "Go on," he said to Ilsa, who was watching his face like it was the Weather Channel … and a tornado was moving in.

"I couldn't believe it, John." Her voice trembled. "I felt like the writing was on the wall. That this was all I was to them. Their honeypot—willing and able to do anything they asked. So I threatened to resign my post, right there on the spot."

"You—what?" Setting his glass down on the coffee table, he stared at her in disbelief. "You threatened to quit?"

She shrugged. "It wasn't really that hard of a choice. I'd been on the fence about whether or not I wanted to continue anyway—at least since the last time I saw you."

Casey fought to keep his expression blank, but inside, he was in turmoil. What did this mean—that she wanted to be with him again? That she was ready to turn her back on her career? God, having feelings was fucking exhausting. "But you're good at what you do," he said, getting up to pour himself another drink. "I didn't much like being on the receiving end of it—but you're talented, Ilsa. There had to be another way."

When he turned around again, she was smiling. "Brochand actually begged for me not to quit—said it would be a shame to lose an operative with so much skill and experience. He'd shown his hand and an idea sprang to mind. I told him I would stay as long as I had my choice of assignments."

"Good for you." Casey raised his glass in a toast. "What did the bastard say?"

"He was reluctant at first, but I had nothing to lose, so I held my ground. He eventually acquiesced. So here I am, where I should've never left." She lifted her own glass in a small salute, then drained it and licked her lips in satisfaction. That was another thing he'd always loved about Ilsa—her appreciation of fine alcohol. Well, that, and her mouth … to which her tongue was currently calling all too much attention. Mesmerized, he stared—and then realized what he was doing and hastily lifted his gaze to meet hers. Her eyes were crinkled in amusement, as if she knew exactly what effect she was having on him.

"I knew I should have listened to your friend before I left, John," she said, lips curving in a smile.

Startled out of his trance, Casey sat back in his seat. "Friend? What friend?"

"You know, the tall goofy one. Your neighbor … Charles, was it?"

"Chuck?" God, all roads led to Bartowski. "What did that moron tell you?"

She gave him a chiding look. "When we'd finished cleaning up at the Grand Seville, he pulled me aside and told me that having a deep connection with someone special had a rare look to it, but that it suited me—that maybe I should try to hold on to it with both hands. I guess he saw more in me than I could see in myself at the time, but I just couldn't get that thought out of my head after I left. It was like his voice followed me everywhere I went. It was kinda creepy, now that I think about it."

Goddamn Bartowski. He was a meddling, naïve fool—but he was also right, much of the time. And in this case, he'd done Casey a solid … not that Casey was prepared to admit that to Ilsa. "Tell me about it," he said, sipping his drink. "Bartowski has that effect on a lot of people. He's like some sort of fungus that grows on you. I've been looking into finding a spray or an ointment cream to try and kill it."

Her laughter was like music to his ears. It always had been.

So Ilsa was still a spy and she was here … on his doorstep … wanting what? He was almost afraid to ask—almost.

"So you're here for the job?" he said, and braced himself for her reply.

"I chose this particular assignment because it would allow me to be near you. I'd like to try again, John. You and me." Her eyes lowered, as if she was trying to find the courage to go on. Then she looked up, hands twisting in her lap, and continued. "That is, if you still feel the same way. I know you still have your job and I have mine, but maybe we could find a way to make it work?"

Of all the crappy timing. Why now, when everything was going to hell in a handbasket? "Of course I'd like to try again, Ilsa," he said, and was gratified to see her face light with happiness. "But it's not that simple. There are things going on right now that I don't want you caught up in. Not to sound dramatic, but my life is teetering on the edge of the abyss and I don't want to drag you down with me."

The happiness faded, and for a moment he was afraid she'd just walk away—that she didn't believe him, or, worse still, that she thought he wasn't worth the effort. Instead, though, she surprised him. "That sounds serious. Maybe I can help? Or maybe we could help each other?"

He set his glass down and splayed his hands on his thighs. "How about we start out by you telling me about this assignment of yours."

She didn't hesitate. "It was the only assignment the DGSE had in the area, so I took it. Details are still pretty sparse and I have no idea if there's anything to it, but a while back we'd set up a sting in Paris to go after a bunch of lowlife arms dealers. In interrogation, one of the guys we'd apprehended let slip that he was also working with some people here in L.A. When we pressed him for more details, all he knew was that there are some rogue factions within the U.S. Intelligence community that are working hard to overthrow the government."

Oh, no. Seriously? What were the chances?

Ilsa was still talking. "They call themselves Fulcrum and are after something called 'the Cipher'—said it was a crucial component for technology they're building. Sounded like something you'd hear on the Sci-Fi Channel. The tech supposedly allows digital data to be uploaded directly into the brain to create some kind of super-soldier."

His heart in his throat, Casey got to his feet and poured a few more fingers into each of their glasses.

It was gonna be a long day and they had a lot to talk about.

OoOoOoOoO

It'd only been a few minutes since Sarah and Bryce had left for their supply run and Chuck could already feel the tension in the house ratchet up a few notches. Zondra stared at him, an apprehensive look plastered all over her beautiful face—and for the life of him, he couldn't figure out why.

Did she want to chew him out for almost getting himself killed, but felt that'd be in bad form, given that he was recovering from a gunshot wound? It seemed unlikely. She didn't look all that angry—at least not at him. Before Sarah and Bryce left, that had been a different story. She'd looked like she wanted to smack Sarah—and there was some kind of weird energy going on between her and Bryce that he couldn't put his finger on. He'd thought getting kidnapped, held hostage, and shot had been perilous … but the emotional dynamics in this safe house were a freaking minefield, and he had no idea why.

He was normally an intuitive person, but between Sarah, Ellie, and Zondra—the most important women in his life—Chuck felt like he needed some kind of reference manual … or maybe there was a 'How to Understand Women for Dummies' guide that could help him figure them out. They truly were from Venus and as a Martian, he didn't stand a chance. Probably they were just more emotionally evolved—but until he could level up, he needed to find a workaround.

Maybe he should just go ahead and apologize—head off trouble at the pass. It'd always worked with Ellie when she was mad at him, even when he had no idea what he'd done wrong.

Well, fortune favored the brave, or so the saying went. He opened his mouth and gave it a try. "Listen, Zondra, I'm really sorry—"

Her face clouded. "Don't, Chuck … don't you dare say another word. Not when you're the one that ended up saving my life, for God's sake. I'm the trained agent—the one, I should point out, that was tasked with your protection. I'd be dead right now if it wasn't for you. So please don't apologize to me when I'm the one that should be telling you how sorry I am that you got hurt."

So much for an apology being the magic bullet—so to speak. Now Chuck was more confused than ever. "What are you talking about? You're not the reason I got hurt."

"Of course I was." She looked at him like he was truly from another planet. "If I hadn't rushed out on that rooftop before assessing the situation, maybe Sarah and I could've taken Longshore down without any bloodshed—or at least without shedding any of _your_ blood. It was a rookie mistake. I'm so sorry, Chuck."

Chuck shifted on the couch, uncomfortable for more reasons than his injured shoulder. "Come on, Z. The only person besides myself that's responsible for me getting hurt was that asshole Longshore. He's the one that tranqed Casey and kidnapped me. He's the one that trained his gun on Sarah and then on you. He's the one that pulled the trigger."

Her self-recriminating expression didn't change, and so he kept going, trying to make her see the situation from his perspective. "Don't you get it? You rushing out on that rooftop the way you did was one of the most badass, selfless things I've ever seen someone do. I couldn't just stand there and let Longshore get the drop on you the way he did with Casey. You're way too important to me."

At his last words, something flashed in Zondra's eyes and the temperature in the room seemed to shoot up a degree or two. Suddenly, Chuck felt utterly exposed—like a field mouse at dusk. He'd seen that look before … in Sarah's eyes right before—oh, God. No, no, no, no. Had he misunderstood how Zondra felt about him all this time? Had he done something to make her think there was more between them than friendship? One thing was for sure—Chuck needed to change subjects, and quickly, before things blew up in his face.

He rushed onward, using the most innocuous, innuendo-free words he could think of. "Look, how 'bout we just call this one even, huh? It's what teammates—what a family does for one another. You have my back and I'll have yours, okay?"

The spark in Zondra's eyes dimmed a little. Tears beaded on her lashes, threatening to spill. But she just blinked a few times and nodded, looking down at her hands, folded in her lap. "Always," she said, her voice soft.

Damn. He hated the idea of making her cry, but what was the alternative? If Zondra had feelings for him that went beyond friendship, he had to make sure not to encourage her or give her the wrong idea. The last thing he wanted was to hurt her—but letting her believe that the possibility of a relationship between them existed would be a different kind of cruelty.

If only he'd been able to be open about his relationship with Sarah from the start, they wouldn't be having this issue right now. Stupid spies, and their intrigue, and the subterfuge they had to employ rather than telling the simple truth.

He spoke lightly, ignoring the fact that he knew she was on the verge of tears—which made him feel like an ass. "Speaking of having each other's backs, maybe I can get you to help me out with a few things today."

Her head came up and she gave him a tentative smile. "Sure. What'd you have in mind?"

This was going to be embarrassing, but anything would be better than staying in the emotional no-man's-land where he'd suddenly found himself. He would've preferred Bryce's assistance, but waiting until his former roommate got back would be a dicey proposition at best. "Well, first I, uh, I'm gonna need some help getting up so I can go to the little boy's room. Ignoring nature's call for as long as I have is starting to get really uncomfortable."

"I'll bet." Zondra shot him a glance in which amusement and sympathy warred for the upper hand. "What else? You said 'a few things.'"

"I'd like to see if we can connect the big-screen TV to that computer system over there"—he gestured at the far wall—"so I can do a little work."

The sadness faded from Zondra's expression, replaced by incredulity. "Work? Are you crazy?"

"Why not? It's not as if I'm otherwise occupied."

"You're _hurt_, Chuck." She glared at him, her muscles tensed as if she was prepared to leap off the couch, secure the CIA's secret stash of bubble wrap, and swaddle him in it.

Between the people who wanted to kill him, the ones who were willing to lay down their lives to protect him, and the few who believed he could actually take care of himself, Chuck was having an identity crisis. "It'll be fine. I promise," he said, ignoring the look she threw his way—which testified to her firm belief in his naiveté. "I won't be of much use to anyone with my arm the way it is, but at least I can try and look into some things—see if I can scratch up some details on that bank vault's security."

Zondra shifted on the couch, pulling her knees up and wrapping her arms around them. For the first time since she'd come into the room, Chuck looked her over closely. She'd braided her hair after her shower, and the clothes she was wearing were a little too big—maybe the shirt was Bryce's? He was pretty sure she'd slept in his room, and of course, she'd left Burbank without a change of clothes, tearing down the highway in an effort to save Chuck's life. Her feet were bare, her toes peeking out from beneath the yoga pants that he thought were likely Sarah's. The overall effect made her look far younger, and more vulnerable.

"You're amazingly talented, Chuck," she said, hugging her knees tight, "but you've just been shot. And this isn't your job. And you're not a spy. It's our job to keep you safe, and you're not making it easy."

"This may not be my job, true—but it's something far more important, Z. It's my _life_. I didn't choose it, but here we are anyway, and I can't just sit around and wait for things to happen to me. I've done that for far too long." He gave her a rueful grin, thinking of the years he'd wasted at the Buy More. "Even if it's too dangerous for me to meet with Jackson right now, maybe I can—I don't know … ask Sarah or Bryce to get me his notes and suss out some things on my own. Sitting here without doing anything to help really blows."

She took a deep breath and untangled her limbs. "I'll help you, Chuck, but only because I'm afraid that if I don't, you'll just find a way to get yourself into even more trouble. There's such a thing as being too noble, you know."

Before he could protest that nobility had nothing to do with it, she'd gotten to her feet and was staring down at him, hands on her hips and an assessing look on her face that reminded him of his sister—right before Ellie was about to tell him off. "I'll make you a deal. I'll help you, like you asked, but I don't want you to overdo it and I'd also like to take a look at your dressings before you even think about doing any work. I'm sure they'll need to be changed out soon."

"Deal," he said without hesitation. He wasn't looking forward to having her poke and prod at his gunshot wound, but it had to be taken care of and the sooner it was, the sooner he could sit back down and dig into the challenge of the vault's security. Not to mention, he really had to use the facilities. Asking for her help in that department was ignominious, but it wasn't like he had a choice.

"How's your pain level?" she said, tilting her head to the side.

"Let's get me to the bathroom and back, then I'll let you know." He pressed the flat of his left hand onto the couch in a prelude to swinging his legs to the floor, then sucked in air through his teeth as pain shot through his injured shoulder. "Something tells me this is gonna hurt like hell—hence the need for your help."

It was slow going at first, but once he was sitting upright, Zondra pressed herself tight against his left side as she pulled him to his feet, her arms wrapped around his waist. Chuck's knees almost buckled under his own weight, and his head swam. He leaned on Zondra harder than he'd intended, and felt her brace herself to support him. It was closer than he'd ever been to her, but he couldn't think about that right now; it was all he could do not to fall.

After a minute or so, his vision steadied, and he was able to pull away. One careful step at a time, his left hand on the wall for leverage, he made his way down the hallway to the bathroom. Zondra walked beside him, ready to catch him if he lost his balance. God, he hated feeling weak like this. The more he moved around, though, the better he'd eventually feel. Stubbornly, he kept putting one foot in front of the other, until—miracle of miracles—he made it to the bathroom door.

The next part was trickier, as his desire for privacy outweighed his need for help. He'd barely made it down the hallway—how the hell would he negotiate taking care of business behind closed doors? One thing was for sure … he wasn't taking Zondra in there with him. He'd just have to work it out.

Amusement stamped all over her face, she pushed the door open for him, gesturing inside like a hostess welcoming a guest to her party. "Here you are, Chuck. Need a hand?"

Was she trying to kill him? "No, thank you," he muttered, and limped inside. He could hear her laughing even after he managed to push the door shut behind him.

When he was done—white-faced and exhausted, but relieved—she helped him back to the couch. "Hang on while I get the med kit," she said, and went to find it.

He sat still, catching his breath and trying to assess just how crappy he felt. He'd almost finished the inventory when she came back, sat down next to him, and began unbuttoning his shirt. Gone was any hint of playfulness. This version of Zondra was all business—which was good, because after his recent revelations, the idea of having her undress him while he was virtually helpless was, to say the least, unsettling.

As if she could sense his uneasiness, she pulled back and patted his leg. "Don't worry, Chuck. I know you're bashful about this kind of thing, but it's the only way to make sure your wound stays clean and free from infection. I'll try and be quick about it."

To Chuck's relief, Zondra only unbuttoned about half the buttons—just enough to slip his shirt off his right shoulder. When he looked down to see the damage for the first time, he couldn't believe the amount of bruising that wasn't covered by the dressing. He was black and blue everywhere. But once she removed the bandages, he could taste the rainbow as well as an encore performance of this morning's breakfast. Not only was he black and blue, but every other color in the spectrum. He was a walking Picasso.

When Chuck glanced back up, he expected Zondra to look as horrified as he felt. Instead, she met his gaze, her eyes soft with compassion. Without a word, she cleaned his wound with the kind of meticulous care he'd only expect from Sarah, Ellie, or even his own mother, back when she'd been around. His comfort was so obviously at the forefront of her mind, her touch gentle and loving. And when she reapplied the dressing, she constantly checked to see if she was hurting him, as if any flinch from him would cause her pain.

While he was grateful for her solicitousness, each time she touched him he became more certain that she had feelings for him that went well beyond friendship. The _coup de grâce_ was when she finished buttoning up his shirt. She smiled at him as she ran a hand through his hair that sent a shiver down his spine—and not in a good way. It was way too intimate for Chuck's tastes, now that he was officially a kept man.

_Danger, Will Robinson!_ was all he could think. _Danger!_ No matter how much he valued Zondra's friendship, he belonged to Sarah and no one else. Those were _her_ curls, he could even hear Sarah say. And Chuck was loyal to a fault. He'd never betray that trust.

Great. Now he'd have to speak with Sarah about all of this, as much as it pained him to think about how that particular conversation would go. Sarah and Zondra had just renewed their friendship; the last thing he wanted was to play a role in screwing that up. Not to mention, they all had to live together now. This was a recipe for disaster.

"Thanks," he said, sliding away from Zondra and settling himself back on the pillows Bryce had propped up behind him. "You're the best."

It was the most innocent response he could manage—but somehow she looked even more pleased than if he'd expressed his undying love for her. When was he gonna learn?

Will Robinson was toast.

OoOoOoOoO

Sarah and Bryce's supply run was an uneventful and almost entirely silent affair, each of them lost in their own heads as they procured everything they needed at Trader Joe's, a drugstore, and an office supply store. Sarah wasn't sure what Bryce was thinking about, but she could make a good guess. He'd looked just as troubled as she'd been by Zondra's overprotective, defensive attitude towards Chuck.

It wasn't as if Sarah disagreed with Zondra's assessment of the situation—or her desire to keep Chuck safe. The more people looking out for his well-being, the better. No, what had Sarah's panties in a twist was the judgmental attitude Zondra'd shot her way when discussing their next course of action. Not only was it uncalled for, it served to highlight all of the insecurities that'd plagued Sarah ever since first meeting Chuck—that somehow she wouldn't be good enough, or fast enough, or smart enough, and in the end, would lose him to the void as she'd almost done on numerous occasions now. The nightmare from this morning was still haunting her, and she didn't need to be kicked while she was down—especially by a friend.

The worst part was that Sarah had played a key role in creating this situation—one in which Zondra thought it wasn't over the line to demonstrate a proprietary attitude toward Chuck's safety. If Z knew that Sarah and Chuck were together, there was no way she would've been so cavalier about going head to head with Sarah about what to do next. And there certainly was no way Z would be looking at him with such fierce tenderness … as if, given the right circumstances, he might be hers.

Keeping Sarah's relationship with Chuck secret had once served a purpose, but now it was unnecessary and becoming intolerable. In hindsight, she should've just told Zondra the whole truth when they were standing outside of Casey's apartment, but Chuck's life had been in the balance and Sarah's emotions in a death spiral. Claiming her turf had been the last thing on her mind.

It was painfully clear that the status quo needed to change, and she wasn't looking forward to that conversation. Coming clean with Zondra could cause a rift not only in their renewed friendship, but also in the group dynamics they'd all be living under for some time to come.

The real kicker to this whole mess was that just over a month ago, Zondra had confessed to still being in love with Bryce. And Bryce's feelings for Zondra were becoming more and more evident with each of his lingering looks and his somber mood when his glances weren't reciprocated. What was Z's deal? Did she still care for Bryce—and if so, what was she doing, looking at Chuck as if she wanted to gobble him up like a hot fudge sundae? As for Bryce, if he'd been lugging around a torch for Zondra since their days at the Farm, why had he waited so long to act on it—and why didn't he say something, instead of casting lovesick stares in Zondra's direction like a heartsick teenager?

It was all so juvenile—not to mention infuriating—and only confirmed Sarah's suspicions that most agents, while competent with espionage and intrigue, were emotionally stunted to a debilitating degree. They'd never fully developed the skill set to empathize or achieve real intimacy with another person. Sarah included herself in that group; if it wasn't for Chuck's patience and compassion, she'd still be a babe in the woods herself.

As she and Bryce stepped back through the door of the safe house, she resigned herself to telling Zondra about everything the first chance she got and letting the chips fall where they might. Hopefully their friendship could withstand the painful truth. It was a far cry better than the charade they'd been playing of late.

They took their shopping bags into the kitchen and then came back into the living room. When she looked over at Chuck, she was surprised to find him tapping away on a keyboard, totally in the zone. Windows opened and closed on the big-screen TV in a blur. Zondra sat next to the other two monitors in the corner, diligently scanning the recordings of past surveillance feeds, searching for anything out of the ordinary.

Stepping to the side of the couch, Sarah cleared her throat. Chuck's hands froze over the keyboard. He looked up, saw her, and smiled.

"Hey, Sarah. Didn't hear you guys come back in."

Aaaand that was why he needed to have someone with him, even when his shoulder healed. "Can't say that that's a reassuring thought, Chuck," Sarah said, frowning at him. "What the heck are you doing, anyway? You know you shouldn't be using that arm at all, right?"

Zondra stood up and stretched, then moved over to the loveseat. "I told him the same thing. but he wouldn't let up. Maybe he'll listen to you."

"Come on, guys. Cut me some slack, would ya?" He widened his smile to include Zondra and Bryce. "Besides, I've got good news. I've already figured out how to crack the bank's vault and I was just starting to work on the perimeter security when you guys came in. I've got a few ideas on that front too, but I'd like to see if you can get me Jackson's notes to see if there's anything I might've missed."

A shocked silence fell over the room. Bryce was the first to break it. "No way. I know you're good, but that's impossible, Chuck. We've only been gone for about an hour and Jackson's been working on the bank's security for over a month. He says it's nearly impenetrable during daytime hours and downright impossible at night."

"And he'd be right … well, sort of." Chuck gave all of them a one-shouldered shrug that somehow managed to convey both humility and a terrifying sense of confidence. "I, uh, I'd be glad to explain it to you."

This, right here, was one of the many reasons that Sarah loved him as much as she did. He was so brilliant and creative—but also humble. He might be the Piranha … and the Intersect … but at heart, Chuck was just an unpretentious guy who thought about the good of those around him rather than seeking the limelight for himself. He could take over the world if he had the slightest inclination—but all he wanted to do was make the people around him happy. It was the most attractive quality she'd ever found in another human being and she felt privileged to have recognized it before it was too late.

"Okay, Chuck," she said, sitting down next to him. "You've got our attention. Let's see what you have in mind."

OoOoOoOoO

Zondra was reeling. From the jubilant, self-assured look radiating across Chuck's face, she was sure he'd done it. He'd figured out how to break into the bank's vault—and, more than that, he'd come up with a plan. Somehow, between the time she'd changed his dressing to the moment Bryce and Sarah had come through the door, he'd accomplished more than an FBI analyst had managed in over four weeks. She had a tremendous amount of faith in his abilities, but this went well beyond what she'd imagined he could do.

"Here. Take a look," Chuck said, his fingers flying over the keyboard. "This should give you some insight into what I have in mind."

The image on the TV screen shifted, replaced in rapid succession by power grid schematics of San Francisco. Those gave way to blueprints of the bank's building and vault specifications, along with a string of letters and numbers that meant little to Zondra, but were doubtless significant.

"Those—" Bryce said in disbelief, gesturing at the screen. "How the hell did you get them?"

A smile spread across Chuck's face. "You helped."

"I helped? How? By shopping at Trader Joe's?" The incredulity in Bryce's voice was clear. "If I'd known that buying frozen pizza and orange juice would pave the way for securing that"—he pointed at the screen again—"I would've done it long ago."

"Well, your _credentials_ helped, anyhow. And of course, the CIA's got resources that aren't available to the general public. I just needed to gain access to them—which your computer conveniently allowed me to do. It's all there … _if_ you know where to look." Chuck flipped through the schematics and blueprints again, settling on the specifications of the vault itself.

Bryce sunk into a chair across from the couch, his legs crossed at the ankles. "You hacked my computer? I guess I had that one coming."

"It was my pleasure—especially after discovering your password," Chuck said with a smirk. "Fuzzyduck347, Bryce? Really?"

For the first time ever, Zondra saw Bryce blush. He ducked his head, mumbling to the carpet, "It was my favorite stuffed animal when I was little, okay?"

"And far be it for me to judge." Chuck's lips twitched, mirth lighting his eyes.

"He may not be judging, but I am." From where she stood next to Bryce's chair, Sarah nudged the other agent's foot with hers. "Big bad Bryce Larkin, conquering the world with his fuzzy duck. Who would've thought?"

Bryce shot her an unmistakably dirty look. "Like Walker said, you've got our attention, Chuck. Keep talking."

Chuck flexed his fingers, clearly in his element. "The fuzzy duckling aside, gaining access to all those resources let me see exactly what we were up against. Whatever we do, we obviously can't go in blind. So I looked through everything I could find … and then I did some more digging. There's an after-hours cleaning service that has access to the bank—but not the vault. We'll need to get our hands on one of their keycards. I'll leave that part of the mission up to you guys. Then we'll obviously need to find a reason to cancel the service for the night. Maybe we can tell them the carpets are being cleaned or the place is being fumigated. Anything that'll justify canceling the service. Once again … that's up to you. The bank's outside doors have magnetic locks that are all tied into the alarm system. With just a swipe from one of their keycards, we can disarm the perimeter security and we're in."

"Simple, yet elegant." One side of her mouth rising in a smile, Sarah sat down at Chuck's feet. "I like it."

"You'll loop in surveillance footage from a previous night, I assume," Zondra said.

"Of course. That won't be a problem." Chuck shot her a grin.

"I imagine not," Bryce said, glancing back at him. "But that only gets us inside the bank—not the vault. I take it you have a plan for that too?"

"Of course I do." The amusement on Chuck's face morphed into the look of concentration he wore whenever he took on a technological problem. Zondra loved seeing how his mind worked; his thought process was unlike that of anyone she'd ever met. "I've figured out how to trick the vault's system using a couple of simple scripts I wrote back in my Stanford days. The complexity of the vault's security turned out to be its biggest vulnerability."

"Complexity?" Sarah said, her eyebrows knitting. "That sounds rather ominous, Chuck."

"You're right—and in most cases, it would be." The light from the windows filtered onto Chuck's face, giving his eyes an amber glow. He looked, Zondra thought, more energized than she'd seen him before—injured shoulder notwithstanding. Here, with the inner workings of city power grids and near-impenetrable bank vaults at his disposal, he seemed more at home than he'd ever been at the Buy More. If Bryce hadn't derailed his education and career, maybe this was how Chuck would look all the time.

Of course, if Bryce hadn't done that, Zondra might never have met Chuck—but that was a metaphysical problem that was definitely above her pay grade.

"This system's a real beast," Chuck went on, as happily as if he was detailing plans for a picnic. "It'll be tricky in the best of situations, catastrophic in the worst. And it uses a digital time lock that prevents opening the vault until it reaches a preset time—in this case, during banking hours. Even when the correct protocols are followed, the vault doors won't open outside of that window."

For the life of her, Zondra couldn't see what he was so happy about. "So this has to be done during banking hours? How does that help us? The place'll be crawling with people."

It seemed like an excellent point to her, but Chuck's smile didn't fade. "Patience, young padawan," he said—a Star Wars reference to which her inner nerd thrilled. "All of the systems are networked. The authentication server, the timer, the facial recognition software—everything. And that's its single point of failure too—one in which we can exploit."

"Facial recognition software?" Bryce said, his mouth settling into a displeased line that Zondra knew all too well. "Jackson never mentioned that."

"Maybe he didn't realize. Like I said, the vault's design's really complex. It takes a while to figure out all of the fail-safes." Chuck sounded charitable—kindly glossing over the fact that Jackson had had well over a month to figure all of this out. But then, that was Chuck, kind to everyone—even when they didn't deserve it.

"Fair enough," Bryce said, drumming his fingers on his knee again.

"Every step of opening the vault doors requires a two-person authentication method. The manager and assistant manager of the bank are the only ones in the system that're authorized to open them. There's also an audited internal log of all attempts to gain entry."

"That far Jackson got," Bryce said. "Where does the facial recognition software come in?"

"The vault has a two-door system too, instead of the traditional approach of using single-door. The first door has two keypads that uses a ten-digit code on each. As soon as you get past the first door, there's a second door and two cameras that run facial recognition software. These cameras will detect each person's face, and if that person is authorized, they'll each get a one-time passcode on their cell phone which will serve as the passcode for the second door."

"And if they're not authorized?" Sarah said warily.

Chuck gave another one-shouldered shrug. "The first door will slam shut, lock automatically, and they'll be trapped inside until the authorities arrive."

"I'm sorry I asked," Sarah said with an exaggerated shudder. It was only partially an act; not many people knew it, but Walker was claustrophobic as hell. She and Zondra had spent some time trapped in an underground tunnel during a mission; Sarah had done her best to shrug off how much being confined like that bugged her, but Zondra knew her well enough to see through her pretenses. "So what's your workaround, then?"

"We spoof the IP address and digital footprint of the authentication server. I'll need Jackson's help on site to tie into the network while I work remotely. Since the manager and assistant manager are the only ones who're authorized to open the vault, we'll need to temporarily replace their images and phone numbers with yours and Zondra's."

Bryce's eyes shot to Zondra for the first time since he and Sarah had come back to the safe house from their shopping expedition. She hated that she was wearing his shirt, but it had been clean, and available. She could've asked Sarah if she could borrow something, but she'd been in a hurry to shower and had just grabbed something out of Bryce's closet. When she'd first walked into the living room to join everyone for breakfast, she'd felt Bryce's eyes on her—and when she'd glanced over at him, his lips had quirked upward in amusement … and something more. He _liked _seeing her in his shirt, she was sure of it.

She needed to go shopping, and soon.

"Why put Zondra at risk?" Bryce said, looking back at Chuck. "I can do this."

Zondra opened her mouth to protest—she was a CIA agent, not a hothouse flower—but Chuck beat her to it. "I'm sure you could, buddy, but both the manager and assistant manager are women … and their identities are hard-coded into the read-only memory of the system. You're pretty hot, Bryce, but not that hot."

Wait a minute. Chuck thought she was hot? He'd basically said as much, hadn't he? What was she supposed to do with that piece of information?

Crossing his arms across his chest, Bryce sighed. "Fine."

"Don't sulk," Walker said, looking entertained. "I'm sure Chuck will come up for a job for you too. With or without your fuzzy duckling. Did it have a name, by the way?"

Bryce shot her a glance that could've leveled a city. "You're never going to let me live this down, are you?"

She shook her head. "Nope."

Bryce sank lower in his chair, eyes at half-mast. "Go on, Chuck, by all means. What's next?"

"Well, just so you understand—the whole system will need to be offline for this all to work, but I can arrange for that to happen. We won't have a lot of time … but it should be enough."

"For you to knock the system offline—" Sarah began.

"I'll have to hack into the city grid and cut power to the whole block. That, and the ISP's local hub so the system can't phone home. Those schematics should come in handy, huh? Plus, when the system switches to its backup generator, we'll have a few seconds to run my scripts. They'll allow me to run any program—in this case, the vault's system authentication protocol—with any date and time I specify. It'll trick the system into thinking it's AM instead of PM and voila, the bank's open for business."

Zondra stared at him, sitting there on the couch with his arm in a brand-new sling and an unmistakable glint in his eyes. "Who would have thought you could come up with something like this, Chuck? It's positively diabolical."

"Nah. Just … thorough." He flipped through to an image of the deposit box itself. "The two of you should be able to get into the safety deposit box once you're inside—or at least, I think so. From what I can see here, it's got a dual custody lever lock on it. Can you two open that?" he asked, turning to Sarah, then Zondra.

"Yes," they said in chorus.

"Fantastic. It should all go smoothly … and when we're done and the system comes back online, a cleanup script will execute itself that eliminates all traces that we were ever there." Chuck sat back, a look of satisfaction marking his features.

"Rizzo's right—this is diabolical." His fingers drumming on his knee, Bryce leaned forward, eyes fixed on Chuck's face. "How sure are you that it'll work?"

Chuck ran his good hand through his hair. "Oh ... at least ninety-five percent."

Maybe he was kidding; maybe he wasn't. With Chuck, Zondra sometimes found it hard to tell. But one thing was for sure … their odds of getting the information they needed had just gotten ninety-five percent better.

She turned to Sarah, then Bryce. Both looked stunned, impressed—and eager.

It was time to get their hands dirty … again.

* * *

A/N: Emily and I would like to thank all of you who have chimed in to let us know what you think and feel about our efforts. Your thoughts and ideas not only fuel our imagination but our desire to come up with more innovative ways to hold your interest. We're also having a lot of fun bouncing around the ideas that some of you have shared with us. They might not have been put into play instantly but trust us—we're listening. We can only hope we're up to the task.

A/N #2: The next chapter is shaping up to be a real white-knuckle ride, in our opinion. It's always satisfying to build up to a part in the story where everything unfolds—Sarah and Zondra on a mission together with Jackson; Chuck and Bryce providing backup on comms from the safe house; Casey and Ilsa reading each other in while dealing with Beckman. No pressure … right? Still, it should be a blast trying to pull it off.

As always, thanks for reading.


	18. The Covert Caper's Quagmire

Chapter Eighteen … in which Bryce bares his soul, Zondra skates close to the edge, Sarah meets her match, and Chuck takes point—with potentially cataclysmic results.

This chapter completes the Sarah vs. the Vault arc. Many unresolved issues remain, which will be fun to explore in future chapters—but this one is all about the action.

Disclaimer: We don't own Chuck…

* * *

**Chapter 18: ****The Covert Caper's Quagmire****  
**

As dusk settled over the safe house, everyone scrambled to get ready for that night's mission. Chuck had spent the better part of the afternoon refining his scripts and repackaging them into executables, while combing through Jackson's notes to ensure he hadn't missed something critical. This was _his_ plan and the responsibility lay on his shoulders should anything go wrong. Mindful of Tolkien's quote, 'It does not do to leave a live dragon out of your calculations, if you live near them,' he'd also taken time to put contingencies in place for every step. In their world of rogue spies and evil men, there was always a dragon or two with which to contend.

Bryce'd returned earlier in the day from his side mission at Dalia's Cleaning Services … procuring the keycard they needed to disarm the perimeter security and gain access to the bank's interior. He'd insisted that he'd be the one to take care of it—maybe he felt sidelined, having to stay behind with Chuck while Zondra and Sarah carried out the main part of the mission—but when pressed on how he'd pulled it off, his only response had been, 'it wasn't a problem.' Chuck had a sneaking suspicion that seduction had been involved. For the life of him, he had no idea why Bryce was so reluctant to admit it; it wasn't like it would've been the first time he'd needed to use such tactics. With his reputation, Chuck had simply expected that would be the approach he'd take.

Back in their college days, Bryce had certainly had no problems bragging about his conquests. Maybe his reluctance now had something to do with the weird energy between him and Zondra. Chuck would have to ask Sarah about that later when they had a chance to talk about the whole awkward situation—something he was dreading far more than tonight's mission.

On a less troubling note, along with the keycard, Bryce had also retrieved a bottle of Chardonnay that Chuck had asked him to pick up while he was out. When Bryce'd asked why Chuck needed it, he'd given him his canned response of 'it's my thinking juice.' The Piranha had his methods and it wasn't the time for him to change old habits—not when so much was at stake. He hadn't elaborated, and after giving him a long look, Bryce had been kind enough to just do as he'd asked.

After Sarah had gotten Jackson's notes, she'd brought the FBI tech guru up to speed on tonight's mission. He sounded excited to be working alongside one of the CIA's 'top analysts'—call sign, _Red Two_—even if it was only remotely. Looking amused, Sarah'd said that Jackson had instantly recognized Red Two as Wedge Antilles' call sign from Star Wars. The guy's stock had gone up a few more points in Chuck's book. He'd already gained respect for Jackson after looking through his notes, but knowing he was a sci-fi aficionado made Chuck wish he could meet him in person, not just hide behind a silly code name. He understood the need for the call sign, of course, but that didn't mean he had to like it. Still if he had to have a fake name, at least he'd come up with a good one … and not just for himself, either.

He leaned back on his pillows, flexing the fingers of his bad hand, just as Zondra and Sarah emerged from Sarah's bedroom—where they'd been sequestered for the past half hour—literally, dressed to kill. Chuck's mouth fell open and stayed that way. They both looked like something straight out of the Matrix. From their form-fitting Kevlar vests to their long black trench coats, they were the hottest thing he'd ever seen.

Sarah smirked, sauntering over to where Chuck was sitting. She reached over and lifted his chin, closing his mouth before she spoke.

"Down, boy," she said.

God, he could be such a total idiot in her presence. If she knew the power she held over him, she could have him do anything she asked and he'd only beg for more. He'd willingly be her slave—and love every minute of it.

Over Sarah's shoulder, Chuck caught a glimpse of Zondra, glancing away like seeing the two of them together made her uncomfortable … or worse, upset. It made Chuck feel awful. The last thing he wanted to do was hurt her feelings—well, the second-to-last. The very last thing he wanted to do was violate Sarah's trust in him. He'd rather be roasted alive than cross that line.

Zondra was beautiful—objectively, he could appreciate that. She was smart, and a total badass, and a kindred spirit beneath it all … but she didn't move Chuck the way Sarah did. He knew she never would.

But did _she_ know that?

Oh, yeah. He and Sarah couldn't have that talk soon enough.

But now wasn't the time. He needed to push those thoughts aside and review the mission parameters once more before everyone broke into their respective teams. This would be their last chance to look each other in the eye, voice any concerns, and ask questions. Chuck also wanted a chance to test the lapel cameras and mics so he'd be certain to see and hear everything Sarah and Zondra did. He'd leave nothing to chance before placing them in harm's way.

"To be clear," he said, sliding back into professional mode as Sarah straightened up, "we'll need to be in place and ready to open the vault's primary door no earlier than 8:56 PM and no later than 9:04. Just a ten-minute window. If there's any deviation from that, I suggest we scrub the mission altogether and regroup. If we go in outside that window, it'll deviate from the bank's normal business practices and the system might go into lockdown."

Chuck paused and looked around. All three agents were staring at him attentively, soaking in every word. He wasn't accustomed to having them look at him like he was the one with all the answers—as if they were taking their direction from him, relying on him. It was a great feeling, in some respects … but it also made him incredibly nervous.

"If we're in place and ready to go," he went on, trying not to let his trepidation show, "I'll cut the power and cable to the entire block and have Jackson execute the hack right when the backup power kicks in. At that point I'll be able to spoof the IP address and digital footprint of the authentication server—meaning that I'll be able to control the code generation and facial recognition authentication protocols. After that, we're golden."

"How so?" Zondra said, her eyebrows rising in a clear expression of skepticism.

"If done correctly, the system will think it's still online and all systems will be nominal. I'll send each of you a text with the ten-digit code to get through the first door. At that point, things get tricky."

Now the skeptical expression had spread to Sarah's face.

"You'll both need to face the cameras by the second door and stand perfectly still while I overwrite the reference points of the manager and assistant manager's faces with your own. It's the only thing I couldn't automate and I'll have to do it on the fly." He shot the two of them an apologetic glance. "Sorry, but they're hard-coded into the system's read-only memory."

"And what happens to us if you make a mistake?" Zondra's voice was hard—the way he imagined it might be if she was discussing a mission with a fellow agent. Chuck wasn't offended, though; she was finally treating him like an equal, not an asset or some porcelain doll that needed her protection. And best of all, she wasn't looking at him like she wanted to sweep him off his feet or jump his bones.

"He won't," Sarah said, folding her arms across her chest. "I trust him."

Come to think of it, maybe Chuck _was_ a little offended—not by Zondra's harsh tone but by the idea that she thought he might screw up a hacking job. The Piranha had never failed. "I would never let anything happen to either of you," he said. "I _am_ pretty good at this."

Zondra opened her mouth to reply, but before she could voice whatever she had in mind, Bryce stepped in. "Sandra," he said, "just for the record, I would trust Chuck with my life. He's the smartest man I know."

Silence fell in the wake of Bryce's declaration. Not only had he called Zondra by what Chuck suspected was her real name, but he'd expressed a level of confidence in Chuck that left him feeling warm and fuzzy all over—fitting, for a guy whose password was fuzzyduck347. Chuck almost felt like he had his old friend back … the one he'd connected with on such a deep, personal level, before the CIA got its hooks deep into Bryce's soul and everything went sideways.

He looked over at Bryce, intending to thank him—but, compliment or no, Bryce wasn't even looking Chuck's way. Instead, his gaze was fixed on Zondra, heavy with an intensity that Chuck couldn't decode. He was sure Bryce had used her real name on purpose, to communicate … what? The existence of a connection between the two of them that superseded their lives as spies?

Well, none of that mattered now. The most important thing was to make sure Sarah—and Zondra too, of course—stayed safe. Their lives might depend on the success of his plan, and he wasn't willing to leave anything to chance.

"Okay," he said, ignoring the emotional undercurrents that threatened to swamp the room. "Let's test out the comms and make sure we have a solid video signal and the audio is five by five. It's now or never, right?"

"Yeah, now or never," Bryce echoed, still looking at Zondra, who glanced away.

Shaking his head, Chuck did what he did best, and got to work.

OoOoOoOoO

"Z," Sarah said, adjusting her trench coat to better accommodate the small arsenal beneath, "we need to talk."

In the dim light of Zondra's Jeep, Sarah caught a flash of the other agent's eyes. "Uh oh. That sounds bad. You breaking up with me, Walker?"

Despite herself, Sarah couldn't help but smile. "Not yet … sorry. You're stuck with me for a while longer—at least until we get into that vault and get the hell out of Dodge."

"Huh." Two fingers on the wheel, Zondra merged seamlessly into traffic. "Then maybe you wanna consult with me about the best way to keep Bryce out of the kitchen, or at least not on breakfast-making duty? Those eggs were a culinary abomination."

"They were," Sarah agreed, "but that's not it either."

Zondra drew a deep breath. "If it's about the way Bryce keeps looking at me—or how he used my real name earlier—I don't know what's up with him. I found a photo of the two of us in his bedside table, from back in the day. It's all dog-eared, like he's been using it as a substitute for his freakin' fuzzy duck." She took a hard left turn, faster than the traffic pattern required. "I don't get what his deal is. We haven't talked in years, and here he is, all brooding and sentimental. Well, screw that. I haven't got time for it. Lately, I've realized I deserve so much better."

And there it was—the opening Sarah needed. She was sure _I deserve so much better _referred to Zondra's feelings for Chuck. As far as Sarah was concerned, Zondra did deserve better—unless Bryce got his shit together in a spectacular fashion, apologizing for years of ghosting her and actually owning up to his feelings—just as long as Chuck stayed off the menu.

"I thought you loved him," Sarah said—a weak opener, but relationship talks weren't her forte.

"Bryce? I do. Or, I did. Or …" She pulled up to a stoplight and turned to face Sarah. "I do love him—in a sick, twisted way. But I love cheeseburgers too. And pepperoni pizza with extra sauce. Doesn't mean they're any good for me. I'm beginning to think my feelings for Bryce were an unhealthy habit." Her voice dropped, thickening with emotion. "Don't know about your childhood, Walker—it's not like we've swapped war stories—but mine sucked. Daddy issues, abandonment, the whole nine yards. It's not like I had good role models when it came to what healthy relationships are supposed to look like."

"Z—"

Zondra tossed her dark hair, getting it out of her eyes, and stepped on the gas. "It's behavioral modification, right? I trained myself into being attracted to guys like him. I can train myself out of it. Especially when there's someone else willing to lay down his life for mine. That's the kind of guy I should be with. Not someone who spends his nights making out with me and his days pretending it never happened."

The pain in Zondra's voice was palpable, and Sarah felt like the worst friend in the world—especially because Bryce had never tried to deny the existence of his little _affaire de coeur _with her_. _Then again, there hadn't been much _coeur _involved—and maybe that had made all the difference. Maybe he'd fallen in love with Zondra, and it had scared the crap out of Mr. Emotions Are for the Weak ... so he'd pretended the whole thing never mattered to him.

Whatever the case, Sarah couldn't lie to her friend for a second longer. "I have to tell you something. Chuck and I are together," she blurted.

An icy silence descended on the car. Finally, Zondra broke it. "For how long?"

Knowing Zondra, that question could be taken two ways … both as a query about how long Sarah and Chuck had been together and a barb about how long Sarah expected it to last. Not wanting to fight, though, Sarah decided to accept it at face value. "I've loved him since the beginning. When he saved a man's marriage and made a little ballerina's day instead of hitting on me." A smile lit her face, remembering. "But in terms of how long we've been a couple … right after Thanksgiving. Before I left for San Francisco."

Zondra white-knuckled the wheel. "About ten minutes after you kissed Bryce, you mean. God, Walker, you're some piece of work."

"In my defense, Bryce kissed me first. And yes, I did kiss him back, but—I was scared, Z."

The admission fell between them like a stone. Slowing for another stoplight, Zondra snorted. "Of what? Bryce? I don't believe that for a second."

"And you shouldn't." Sarah balled her hands into fists. "Bryce is a lot of things as far as I'm concerned, but scary isn't one of them. Loving Chuck, on the other hand … that terrified me."

Zondra's expression softened as she loosened her grip on the wheel, and it occurred to Sarah that maybe Z'd been fighting the same fear. God, what a messed-up bunch they all were.

"The day of Bryce's resurrection," Sarah continued, determined to see this through, "I slipped up—exposing my feelings for Chuck after months of denying there could be anything between us. I even lied to his face while we were both under the influence of a powerful truth serum. He was getting too close, Z—breaking down all of my walls—making me lose focus. I was sure I'd end up getting him killed if I didn't keep things between us strictly professional."

Sarah took a deep breath, thinking back. "But then we found ourselves standing in front of a bomb we couldn't disarm and had no chance of outrunning. Before the timer ran out, I had nothing to lose. I wasn't gonna let him die without him knowing how I felt. So I threw caution to the wind and kissed him with everything I had and felt my whole world collapse into his. It was the most intimate moment of my life. There weren't two people standing on those docks anymore. We'd become one in a way I never thought possible."

"Very poetic, Walker," Zondra said, dry as sandpaper. "Didn't know you had it in you. You sure you haven't been moonlighting as the Bard in your spare time? A cover inside a cover inside a book cover?"

Ignoring Zondra's sarcasm—like Bryce, she used it to hide what she was really feeling—Sarah soldiered on. "I never would've done it if I thought we were going to live. But then the bomb turned out to be Bryce's life pod."

"How inconvenient," Zondra muttered.

"It wasn't inconvenient. It was incredible—both that Bryce was alive and that Chuck and I hadn't died. It was a miracle. For a split second I was happier than I could've imagined. But then it all fell apart." She stuck her hands in the pockets of her trench coat to conceal their trembling. "I knew Chuck felt the same thing during our kiss that I did. There was no way to make him believe it wasn't what it was."

"I take it back. You couldn't possibly be the Bard. Your grammar is terrible."

"I'm serious, Z. I knew our relationship was doomed before it could get started. He was my asset _and_ the Intersect, for crying out loud. There was no way it'd ever work between us. It couldn't." Her voice broke. "I wanted to run away and never look back. I'd done that my whole life when things got complicated—first with my father, then with the Company. Trust me, Z—you're not the only one with daddy issues."

Zondra shook her head. "None of this explains why you thought kissing Bryce back was a good idea—especially in Chuck's bedroom at a family gathering. That's beyond cruel—even for the Ice Queen."

Sarah couldn't help but flinch. Zondra had hit the mark … and it stung. "You're right. I can still see the betrayed look on Chuck's face that night. It's the biggest mistake I've ever made. I was so confused by the way I felt and when Bryce kissed me, I just … responded. A twisted reflex of habit. He was the safe, known quantity. Whereas Chuck …"

"So you freaked out and you lied to me." Zondra's words issued from between gritted teeth. "I asked you directly, and you lied."

"What was I supposed to do? A relationship with the Intersect? Come on. That goes against every rule in the book. Plus, I didn't know where your loyalties lay."

"The lying—that I could forgive. But you let me make a fool of myself, Sarah. You let me tell you how I felt … let me believe maybe I had a chance with Chuck … and all the while, you two were together? How can I trust you now?"

"I never wanted to hurt you." It was the simple truth. "I felt like I was in an impossible situation, can't you understand that? Admitting I cared about Chuck was one thing. But saying we'd crossed the Rubicon into an actual relationship … that was something else entirely."

They were less than a block from the bank. Sarah could see Jackson's surveillance van parked at the curb, and from the way Zondra slowed, she could tell Z saw it too. They were going to have to go into this operation with the conversation unfinished—which was unfortunate for so many reasons.

"Why tell me now?" Zondra said, pulling up behind the van. "Of all freaking times?"

Sarah swallowed hard. "Because I care about you too, Z. You're one of my best friends. I can't stand the thought of causing you pain. And … I'm sick of lying to the people I love. That part of my life is done."

It was a difficult admission, and more vulnerable than Sarah had allowed herself to become in front of anyone but Chuck. Still, Zondra didn't give an inch. Instead, she turned off the engine and cracked the car door. "This isn't over," she said to Sarah, her voice dark, and got out of the car, heading Jackson's way.

Huffing to herself, Sarah exited the Jeep too and made her way to the surveillance van. Zondra stood with her arms folded beside the sliding back door … waiting.

Great. So this was how tonight was gonna go. Cold shoulders and snide remarks. Sarah should've just left well enough alone 'til after this mission, but she'd felt too guilty. She'd let her interpersonal instincts override her responsibilities as a spy—and look what had happened. Now they were at odds, minutes before a crucial operation. If something went wrong because of it, it would be Sarah's fault.

Guilt settled over her, heavy and smothering, as Jackson leaned over and unlocked the passenger side door. Sarah climbed inside but cut through the front seats to the back door, opening it for Zondra, who stepped inside, sliding the door closed behind her.

"Jackson," Sarah said, her voice neutral, "this is Agent Rizzo. She'll be running point with me tonight."

Jackson held out his hand, as polite as ever. "It's a pleasure to meet you, ma'am."

A look of surprise crossed Zondra's face. She frowned, then extended her hand to Jackson so they could shake—retrieving her fingers from his grip as soon as humanly possible. That was Z, untrusting in the extreme … even when Bryce and Sarah had both given Jackson the all-clear.

Deciding it was pointless to try and ingratiate the two of them any further, Sarah extracted the small case that held their earwigs and lapel cameras from her inner-coat pocket. She passed them out to Zondra and Jackson, then hooked up her own. Switching on the transceiver, she tested the system, hoping Chuck and Bryce were already in place. Anything was better than freezing her ass off under the weight of Zondra's frigid glare.

"Red Two, this is Blondie," she said into her mic. "Are you receiving me?"

"Yes," Chuck said after a moment. "Fuzzy Duck and I are still reading you five by five." There was a thump, and then he said, sounding both affronted and amused, "Ow! What the…" He cleared his throat. "Sorry … sorry. We've got a strong signal on the cameras as well."

Sarah chanced a glance behind her and found Zondra's eyes watering as the other agent fought as hard as she could not to laugh. Only Chuck could defuse a tense situation without even being there.

"Red Five," Chuck went on, all business now, "did my notes about the IT closet make any sense?"

"Red Five?" Disbelief colored Jackson's tone, as if he didn't think he was worthy of the call sign Chuck had assigned him. "But that's Luke's—"

"That's right. And tonight, I'll need you to be the Jedi on the scene. Is that okay?"

Whatever Chuck meant—Sarah had a sneaking suspicion it had to do with Luke Skywalker, but alas, she still didn't speak fluent nerd—it made Jackson's day. "Yes, sir. I've got it covered … and can I just say, those scripts are—wow! Never seen anything like them. It's an honor to be working with you, Red Two."

"The same, Red Five."

It was Bryce's turn to clear his throat. "This is, uh … Fuzzy … um … Duck. I suggest we keep the comms clear 'til you're all in place."

Sarah had to fight back her own laughter. Smooth, suave Bryce Larkin, reduced to the call sign of his favorite childhood lovie. "Roger that, Fuzzy Duck," she said. "ETA, fifteen minutes. See you on the other side. Over and out."

OoOoOoOoO

Chuck muted their mics, turning to Bryce with a shit-eating grin he couldn't hide. For Bryce to even think about playing along with his little joke was so far outside of the guy's normal comfort zone—the punch to Chuck's good arm notwithstanding. But there Bryce sat, checking the feeds like nothing had happened ... as if they'd never stopped being friends. This was major headway—if only a step back in time, from Chuck's point of view.

Bryce looked back at Chuck, his teeth sinking into his lower lip. Finally, he said, "How do you do it?"

"Do what?" Chuck said, puzzled.

"Have them both fighting over you like you're the second coming. It's so obvious both Zondra and Sarah have fallen for you … hard."

All evidence to the contrary, Chuck had hoped he'd been wrong about Zondra. He especially wanted to be wrong if Bryce was interested in her, since that seemed like a catastrophe waiting to happen.

He messed with his keyboard, checking and double-checking last-minute adjustments. "Sarah?—maybe. All I know is I love her and I hope she loves me back. But Zondra—there's no way."

Bryce pushed his chair back from the computer desk, frustration knitting his brows. "You always were oblivious when it came down to how women felt about you."

_Obviously_, Chuck wanted to say, _since I thought I was going to spend the rest of my life with Jill and then she slept with you instead. _He bit his tongue to keep quiet, since that was definitely a conversation for another day. "What are you really trying to ask, Bryce? Spit it out. Does this have anything to do with the looks you've been sending Zondra?"

Looking miserable, Bryce nodded. "She hates me, Chuck. Can't even stand to make eye contact with me anymore."

Great. Ten minutes before a vital mission, and Chuck was somehow in the role of playing Dear Abby. Not that he didn't care about Bryce, despite everything, and want him to be happy, but … was this really the time? "And why do you think that is? Was it something you've said—something that's upset her?"

Bryce shook his head. "That's impossible. I've barely spoken with her in years."

These freaking spies. They were like talented, terrifying ninjas … with the emotional maturity of three-year-olds. "So how do you expect to find a meaningful connection with her then?" he said patiently. "Osmosis?"

"Of course not. But what if she doesn't feel the same way? I'd be making a fool out of myself—out there, just dangling in the wind, for all to see."

And now they got to the heart of it—Bryce's player reputation and his ever-present pride. "So? Who cares? Did you get the impression you don't already look like a fool in her eyes—tripping over your own words—never saying anything real to her?"

"I—"

"Trust me," Chuck continued, "you do. Stop thinking about yourself and suck it up, buttercup. If you really care about her, shouldn't she be the only part of the equation you're trying to solve? You're not—and have never been—a part of the solution, unless it means going along with what makes her happy." His voice came out harsher than he intended, making him wince. Still, how did Bryce expect anything to change when he refused to take any risks? Did he expect Zondra to read his mind?

He sighed. "I'm sorry, Bryce … I know I'm sounding all preachy, but—"

Bryce ran a hand through his hair, looking thoughtful. "No … No. That was really astute, Chuck. Thank you."

Wow. He'd expected Bryce to give him a hard time, or refuse to take responsibility for his actions. Instead, here he was, actually considering what Chuck had said. Would wonders never cease? "Anytime," Chuck said warily, just as Sarah's comms and video came to life, along with everyone else's.

It was game time.

"Red Two, we're ready when you are," Sarah said, cool and confident as usual. "Standing by."

Chuck would never have thought he'd be relieved to take charge of a bank heist, but it was a cinch after trying to unravel the Gordian knot of Bryce's love life. "Roger that, Blondie. Checking your signal. Looks good from here. Red Five, is your hotspot active?

"It is now," Jackson replied.

A few moments ticked by as Chuck checked for Jackson's signal. "Got it … Okay. We're a go. Remember, Red Five, when you're connected to the network's switch, I'll need to remote into your computer and take care of a few things. When it's time to cut power, you'll be on your own. After you've executed the script, just let me know if there's any drop in connectivity. Just one packet lost and we might need to abort."

"Understood." Like Sarah, Jackson sounded self-assured, which was good. The last thing they needed was for him to lose his nerve. "I'll be ready."

"All right. Fuzzy Duck's taking over the comms now. I need to concentrate. Mute your mics unless you need to use them. And above all else, please stay safe—all of you."

Chuck took a big swig of his Chardonnay, gave Bryce a pointed look, cracked his knuckles, and let the Piranha off his leash.

OoOoOoOoO

Sarah swiped the keycard and heard the outer door click open. She pulled the handle and they filed through the door one by one.

Once they got inside, Sarah headed for the vault behind Zondra as Jackson made his way to the back of the building, towards the IT closet. The operation was incredibly organized; Chuck was showing himself to be a master tactician and his gift for strategy shone through with every command.

Facing the keypads in front of the vault, they waited for Jackson and Chuck to get set up and cut the power. If everything worked as planned, Chuck would send them the outer door's access code and there'd be no turning back. Cutting the power to the building was innocuous in and of itself, but cutting power to the whole block would garner attention in short order from municipal workers and maybe even the local police. This needed to be a hit-and-run operation.

While they waited, Sarah looked over at Zondra, morbid curiosity getting the better of her. Z's eyes were hard and unyielding, betrayal underpinning each fleeting look she sent Sarah's way. Even though this wasn't the time or place, Sarah had to say something—anything—to try and right this sinking ship. It was tearing her apart.

Double-checking to make sure their comms were still muted, Sarah spoke in a stage whisper. "This is killing me, Z. Please … please forgive me. I'm so sorry I lied to you, but I didn't know what else to do. I was just trying to protect Chuck."

"And yourself," Zondra said, leaning back against the wall. "You sure as hell weren't trying to protect _me_."

Bryce's voice cut through the tension, saving Sarah from having to respond … which was just as well. She had no idea what to say.

"We're just about ready. Stand by. Ten seconds from my mark. Starting the countdown … now."

Sarah checked her watch, counting the seconds as they ticked away. When the second-hand reached ten, a shroud of black engulfed everything. The HVAC unit spun down, adding an eerie silence to the mix. A moment later, the generators kicked in and the lights came back on, leaving Sarah with a single question: Had it worked?

As if Chuck had heard her thoughts, her cell phone and Zondra's chirped with incoming text messages, revealing the ten-digit codes. Sarah sucked in her breath and heard Zondra do the same as they punched in the numbers on their keypads. Tumblers spun within the door, ending with an audible click.

Z reached over, tried the handle—and blew out the breath she'd been holding when the steel door opened. Damn, Sarah thought, unmuting their mics. Chuck was good.

"We're through the first door," she said. "Nice job, Red Two. Keep it up."

The two agents stepped up to the cameras to the left and right side of the secondary door, remembering to hold still while Chuck performed his magic. Through Bryce and Chuck's open mics, Sarah could hear the staccato hallmarks of Chuck's fingers pecking away on the keyboard, along with—was he _humming_? What the hell. It wasn't like this was _Zondra and Sarah's Bank Heist: The Musical_.

The pecking and humming stopped, and their phones chirped again with codes for the secondary door—these even longer than the first. Mentally crossing her fingers—failure would slam the primary door shut, trapping them both inside—Sarah typed in the code Chuck had sent. Zondra did the same, and they were rewarded with the sound of the second door unlocking.

He'd pulled it off. Her lovable, innocent, unpretentious nerd had just broken into a freakin' high-security bank vault armed with nothing but a keyboard and a smile. It was surreal. She had to stop treating him like a helpless gosling and realize the he was her equal—maybe even her superior—in so many ways.

"We're in," she said, stepping through with Zondra behind her.

There was a momentary delay. Then Bryce responded, a touch of relief in his voice, "Roger that."

Removing the lock-picking tools from their trench coats, the two agents located the box number and got started. Working together—at least they still made a good team, if nothing else—they had the door open in seconds.

Zondra pulled the box out and walked it over to the stainless steel table in the middle of the room, the duffel bag she'd brought slung over one shoulder. She lifted the lid, and Sarah's stomach tumbled.

On the underside, near the catch system, was what looked like a transmitter. Lit up red, it had its own keypad and a small display that started a timer set at thirty seconds.

This was bad.

"Um, Red Two," Zondra said, tone level, "we've got some kind of scary countdown going on here."

This time, Bryce's response came back immediately. "Abort the mission. Get the hell out of there."

They hadn't come this close just to run now. Inspecting the inside of the box once more, Sarah said, "Everyone calm down. It's not a bomb. Looks more like some kind of transmitter."

"How much time are we talking here?" It was Chuck this time, trying to conceal the worry in his voice.

"The timer just ran out," Sarah said, doing her best to project a confidence she didn't feel, "and now the red light started flashing. So, I'm guessing not much."

"All right." She heard computer keys clacking again. "Grab everything in the box and get out of there. There's no time to make the copies we talked about."

"But if we take everything," Zondra protested, "they'll know we were here."

Chuck gave a dry chuckle. "I'm pretty sure they were just notified, Z. Red Five, pack everything up as quickly as possible. Time to haul ass. Let me know when the vault doors are shut so I can restore power and reset the system."

Sarah examined the contents of the box. It held files and folders, thumb drives, CDs, and stacks and stacks of large bills—all hundreds, by the look of them. Fulcrum wasn't messing around.

Zondra started to tilt the entire box into a duffel bag, but Sarah stopped her. "Wait," she said. "Leave the money."

"What?" Zondra leveled an incredulous glance her way. "Why would we do that? It's probably what Fulcrum's using to fund their operations here."

"But if we leave the money, they'll have nothing to report to the authorities. No one would believe someone robbed them but left all this cash, and they'll never report what was actually stolen. No reason to give Fulcrum an excuse to conscript the police, FBI, and who knows who the hell else into their servitude. They'll know we were here, sure, but there won't be any reports of a bank robbery."

"Good point, Blondie." Zondra emptied the box _sans_ the money and placed it back where they'd found it, locking everything back up.

So far, so good. Fulcrum hadn't arrived on the scene, they'd got the evidence they'd come for, and Zondra hadn't done Sarah in and tried to make it look like an accident. As far as Sarah was concerned, they were ahead of the game.

They retreated through the vault's doors and Sarah reported in. "We're clear, Red Two. Light 'er up."

She didn't wait to hear Chuck's reply. Rendezvousing with Jackson—whose forehead was covered with sweat—she and Zondra headed for the front door. Jackson was the first out, then Zondra, followed by Sarah. They'd run for their vehicles and step on the gas. Whatever that alarm system had signified, they'd outpace it.

Sarah looked back at the bank one more time to make sure they'd covered all of their bases—and heard Zondra let out a frightened yelp. When Sarah spun around, a shiver raced up her spine. Standing behind Zondra—using her as a human shield—was Agent Thomas Channing, the sleazy womanizing asshat and Juliette Reeves' second in command. His arm was wrapped around Zondra's neck, pulling her against his chest, the barrel of his gun pressed to her temple.

Sarah reached for her gun, but Channing's eyes flashed dangerously, warning her as he clicked off the safety on his Glock. She looked at Jackson, but he was no help. He stood off to the side, his eyes wide as he held his hands in the air.

Damn.

"Careful, Agent Williams." Just the sound of Channing's voice made her feel dirty. "I wouldn't do that if I were you—at least not until we've all had a chance to have some … fun." He gave her a lascivious wink over Zondra's shoulder. "Ah, yes. The ultimate trinity. It'd be a shame to get this beautiful specimen of a woman's brain matter all over Tubby's shirt before that can happen."

He was disgusting. But right now, he also had a gun to one of her closest friend's heads, and that was unacceptable.

In this business, one never knew how a mission might turn out—but Sarah was sure of one thing.

Someone was about to die.

OoOoOoOoO

When she saw Sarah's transformation, Zondra's fear transmuted into fierce resolve. Whoever this guy was, Sarah would make him pay the ultimate price. Gone was the woman who'd been begging Zondra for forgiveness only minutes before. In her place stood the harbinger of death—the Ice Queen. Very few people had seen this metamorphosis and lived to tell the tale. Zondra just had to wait for the Queen to strike and hope she was lucky enough not to be caught in the crossfire.

She had no idea how Mr. Breath Smells Like Garlic Cloves had gotten the drop on her. Zondra'd been concentrating on Walker's heartfelt apology when he'd stepped out of the shadows, surprising her … along with everyone else. So much for her training. Her instructors would have a field day telling her how dangerous it was not to keep her thoughts focused on the here and now. They'd say 'Situational awareness resides in the ego, not the id. Not what you feel, little girl, but by what you can see, hear, and taste.' But Freud had never had to be a female spy, dealing with other female spies. What the hell did he know?

The douchebag tightened his grip when he saw Sarah's steely posture. Whoever he was, he was trained to see a legitimate threat when it reared its head. So much for walking away from this unscathed.

"Let's just all take a breath, Channing," Sarah said. "There's no need for anyone to die here tonight."

Her tone was ingratiating, with just a touch of venom. That was new—if not a little unsettling. The old Sarah would've torn through this fucker—the misogynistic Agent Channing, apparently—like gossamer paper on a rainy day, even if Zondra ended up being one of the casualties.

"Oh, trust me. No one's gonna die … yet," Channing said, his voice so coated with slime, Zondra was surprised the gun didn't slide right out of his hand. "There's too much potential here. I'm just glad I was the one in the area when we received the signal you were tampering with our intel. You, your lady friend, and I are going to have a night we'll never forget."

Zondra would've thrown up on him, if she wasn't afraid he would've wound up shooting her as a result. But maybe shooting her would've been preferable, because the bastard moved his hand from her shoulder down to her breast, groping her through the fabric of her vest. Even with the Kevlar barrier, Zondra could feel his touch. Nausea roiled inside her, and Sarah's eyes narrowed, witnessing his sick display.

"I'll even let the geek watch," Channing said, squeezing to the point of pain. "At least 'til we fry his brain to find out what he knows."

The comms came to life, Bryce's voice calm and soothing. "Sandra," he said, using her real name once more, "I need you to listen to me carefully. We can see everything from both of your video feeds. Blink if you copy."

Zondra blinked.

He cleared his throat. "I'm so sorry for everything that I've not had the courage to say to you over the years. You're everything to me."

Wait … what? Maybe she was going mad. Or maybe she was already dead, and this was the afterlife—because otherwise, Bryce Larkin had just admitted … in front of multiple witnesses … that he'd been a coward, and she was his whole world.

Welcome to the effing Twilight Zone.

"Second," Bryce said, moving on with alarming efficiency, "remember Paraguay, Walker—when I was held hostage?"

Sarah blinked.

"When the situation presents itself, I need you to turn your head away from Channing's gun and lean back. Walker will give you the signal … copy?"

Zondra blinked twice.

"Okay, Williams," Channing said. "Very slowly, remove your gun and lay it down in front of you, keeping your hands where I can see them. Make no mistake, our night of pleasure will be abruptly cut short if I need to squeeze this trigger."

Looking directly at Zondra, Sarah blinked once. She held up her free hand and reached into her coat with the other, blinking for the second time. Pulling her gun out by the trigger guard, she laid it by her feet. Her other hand slid to her thigh, and she blinked a third time.

A flash of silver streaked past Zondra's head as she spun away from Channing's barrel and leaned back as instructed.

He fired. The sound was deafening as the flash from his muzzle blinded her, burning her cheek. But somehow, she was still alive—and she was free.

Channing's body lay crumpled by her feet. Glancing down, she saw one of Walker's throwing knives sticking out of his left eye. The cob roller was dead. Good riddance.

Sarah was trying to tell her something, but she couldn't hear a thing. Her ears ringing, Zondra vehemently shook her head. It would be a while before her hearing came back, but she didn't care. She was just grateful to be alive.

She watched as Sarah said something to Jackson—who stood still, open-mouthed and white-faced—and then pulled Zondra along until they reached her Jeep. Zondra handed Sarah her keys and climbed into the passenger's seat, knowing she had no business driving.

Besides Walker calling in a cleaning crew to police Channing's body, the ride home was a silent affair for many reasons—Zondra's hearing aside. Periodically, Sarah would reach over and grab her hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze. Zondra couldn't help but notice the love that filled Sarah's eyes. No matter the undercurrents and unresolved issues between them, Sarah was her friend—her sister … and loved her. Maybe she was part of the family Chuck had described to Zondra just this morning. It was more than she'd ever had.

Whipping the Jeep into a spot at the curb in front of the safe house, Sarah got out and went around to open Zondra's door for her—unnecessary, but a welcome gesture. Walker was protecting her … looking out for her. It was a strange feeling.

The front door of the safe house opened as they came up the steps. Bryce was standing there, his face etched with worry.

"Are you all right?" he mouthed, looking Zondra over from head to toe.

She nodded, and his lips curved in a smile. "Good," he said, the sound filtering through to her as a whisper.

Chuck came up behind him, wrapping his arm around Sarah. Zondra couldn't hear what they were saying, but she saw the way the tension left Walker's body when Chuck held her. She'd never seen Sarah rely on anyone that way. As much as she herself cared for Chuck—as much as she'd hoped there could be something between them—it made her happy to see Sarah in a relationship with someone who valued and adored her.

Then again, Bryce claimed to value and adore Zondra … and what was that all about? Her head spun, as much from emotion as the lingering effects of the gunshot.

"Here," Bryce said, and offered her his hand. Wary, she slipped her fingers into his, and he led her back to her bedroom. He rummaged in his dresser for a t-shirt and sweatpants, then tactfully turned his back as she changed.

To her shock, when she told him he could turn around again—her voice sounded bizarre to her, fading in and out of focus—he tucked her into bed, smoothing the comforter over her body. "I'll be right back," he said, making sure she could see his face when he spoke so there would be no misunderstandings.

True to his word, he was back in less than a minute, a small tube in his hand.

"Aloe," he said. "For your burn."

Sitting on the edge of the bed, he applied the salve with meticulous care, then brushed the hair from her face and kissed her forehead.

"Sandra," he said, looking down at her. "Remember when you made me watch _The Princess Bride_?"

Sure, she remembered. She was surprised _he _remembered. Eyes wide, she nodded.

"'I love you,'" he said, one hand still moving through her hair. "'I know this must come as something of a surprise to you, since all I've ever done is scorn you and degrade you and taunt you, but I have loved you for several hours now, and every second, more.'"

Zondra's mouth fell open. Those were Princess Buttercup's lines, from when she'd confessed her love for Westley. What had Bryce done, memorized the damn movie?

"It's stupid," he said, the words clearer now as her hearing returned, "and I wouldn't tell this to anyone else—but I've watched that movie at least two dozen times since the first time you showed it to me. As I'm sure you know, it's not my kind of flick. I watch it because … well, because it makes me think of you."

Zondra couldn't think of a single thing to say.

"I know I've screwed things up. I know you might hate me. But if you died tonight … I wanted you to understand." He leaned over her to turn off the nightstand lamp. "Good night, Sandra."

She felt his lips brush her forehead again. Then he stepped out of the room and, in the darkness, she reflected on affairs of the heart before sleep finally overtook her.

* * *

A/N: We hope you enjoyed reading this chapter … lots of action, sprinkled with a little romance for seasoning. Please leave a review and let us know what you think!

A/N #2: We covered a lot of ground here, but there are many loose ends to tie up—what will the team discover when they go through the items from the safety deposit box? What's going on between Ilsa and Casey back in Burbank … and will they be able to fend off Beckman? How long will Sarah be able to deceive Graham? Did Awesome ever pop the question? And will Bryce be able to win Zondra's heart?

As you might be able to tell, one of us has a soft spot for _The Princess Bride_ … much the same way as Bryce has carved out space in his heart for his beloved Fuzzy Duck. We're always happy to delve into the action—but we're also thrilled to see our team of nerds and assassins learn what our beloved William Goldman, author of _TPB, _knew all along: "True love is the best thing in the world, except for cough drops."

As always, thanks for reading.


	19. Chuck vs The Three Kings

Chapter Nineteen—in which Sarah comes clean (with a lot of help from Chuck) during some much-needed private time and Zondra and Bryce finally start communicating … in their own way.

This chapter sets the stage for the Chuck vs The Three Kings arc and should carry us through a few months in Chuck time. You'll start picking up hints that will lead us into Season Two.

Disclaimer: We don't own Chuck…

* * *

**Chapter 19: ****Chuck vs The Three Kings  
**

The sun slipped through the cracks of the bedroom's blinds, waking him. Still in the clutches of Morpheus, Chuck rubbed his eyes, hesitantly chasing his dreams away.

From the carousel of random ideas came some semblance of order—a subtle reminder of who he was underneath the montage of thoughts with their loose connections to his waking life. After a few moments more, he began to analyze them in a lazy haze. Perhaps these ideas were meant to be kept. Some were composed as if from books he'd once read, some were just plain silly. After another moment they were gone, leaving no trace in their wake. If they were still in his head somewhere, there was no bread-crumb trail leading back to them. Chuck closed his eyes again, willing the carousel to return, for his mind to tumble back into dreams, but it was a fruitless endeavor.

Memories from the night before came flooding back as he remembered why there was a warm, soft body deliciously pressed against his left side, an arm draped over his belly.

Last night, after Bryce walked Zondra to her bedroom, Sarah had suggested they pore through some of the intelligence retrieved from the bank's vault—but Chuck wasn't having it. He'd seen the troubled look on Sarah's face when she and Zondra had walked through the door after their harrowing near-death experience. He'd also witnessed Sarah's transformation through the video feed when she'd confronted Channing, just a moment before she ended his life. It'd shaken him to his core. Gone was the loving woman he'd come to cherish, supplanted by … well … nothing at all. An empty shell; a glacial, vacant stare; death's willing servant—Graham's enforcer.

It terrified him to see such a metamorphosis take hold of her—not because he now feared Sarah on any level, but because of what a change like that could do to a person's psyche. Chuck knew that for every action Sarah took—no matter its origin—she'd experience a reaction of equal force, weight, and intensity. Even though she'd killed Channing to save Zondra's life, his blood was still on her hands and had only added to the tally sheet Chuck was sure she'd been keeping ever since her red test—a topic she'd reluctantly brought up during one of their deeper conversations while they were apart.

So last night, instead of working, Chuck had pulled her into the bathroom, a glass of Chardonnay in his hand, closing the door behind them. At first she'd misunderstood his intentions. A fire had blazed up in her eyes as she'd looked back at him, and he'd wanted nothing more than to reply in kind. After all, it'd been far too long since their last physical encounter—something Chuck needed just as desperately as she did. But when he set the glass of wine on the edge of the counter, sat her down on the edge of the tub, and knelt in front of her, the fire quickly died … along with their misunderstanding.

Chuck was sure she could see the worry lines etched across his face as he gazed up at her, willing her to share her pain with him. "Sarah, honey," he'd said, "you need to talk to me about tonight—about what happened with Channing. Please tell me what's going through that beautiful head of yours."

Her kneejerk reaction had been to play it off, act as if she didn't understand the true purpose of his request. But she hadn't been able to meet his eyes. It must've dawned on her, maybe for the first time, that Chuck had borne witness to her innate brutality—had watched her become the judge, jury, and executioner in the blink of an eye.

But from Chuck's perspective, Sarah had had every right to make that call. Channing was evil, beyond redemption. There'd be no reasoning with him—even though Sarah had tried—and Zondra's life was literally in his slimy hands. Chuck's role wasn't to play the arbiter of justice—to decide if Sarah was worthy of being pardoned for her actions. No … his only concern was to make sure she realized she no longer needed to carry the weight of her actions alone. That he was there for her to help carry the load—to ensure she'd never collapse under its enormous strain.

So with steely resolve, Chuck had lifted her chin so their eyes met before he continued.

"I know you think you'd be tainting our relationship if you decided to confide in me about how you're feeling right now—that I'd never fully understand what you've done or had to endure in the line of duty—but you'd be wrong to think that, Sarah."

She'd shaken her head as tears welled in her eyes. The panic that set in was so obvious, Chuck could see the quickening pulse in her neck—could hear her breath becoming more labored by the second. But he couldn't waver under the pressure. He cared too much for her to let this slide without confronting it head-on. That was why he'd brought her to the bathroom in the first place—where solitude and privacy were the norms.

His heart pounding with trepidation, Chuck reached over to fill the tub with hot water. He rummaged in the cabinet and came up with a bottle of bubble bath, then poured it into the tub—a little awkward, given that he only had the use of one hand, but he managed. Then he dug a lighter out of his pocket that he'd found in the kitchen's junk drawer and went back into the cabinet for a half-burned candle he'd come across during his earlier bathroom jaunt … seemed like whoever had occupied the safe house before Sarah and Bryce had had a predilection for relaxing in the tub. That accomplished, he'd lit the candle, flipped the overhead light, turned the water off, and then turned back to Sarah.

"Your bath is ready, my lady. All that's missing is your gorgeous, naked self." He'd deliberately kept his tone light. If Sarah had the slightest inclination he intended to continue easing her into deeper waters—so to speak—she'd likely cut and run.

A small smile curving her lips, Sarah'd eased out of her clothes and stepped into the tub.

OoOoOoOoO

Sarah woke to the welcome sensation of Chuck's fingers trailing light circles on her hip and the comforting feeling of his body pressed against hers. She kept her eyes closed and her body relaxed, wanting to savor the moment. Despite the fact that Chuck was hiding out in a safe house with a bounty on his head and only had the use of one arm, she'd half-expected to find him gone … or at least back on the couch. After what she'd shared with him last night, she wouldn't have blamed him in the slightest.

But no. She'd shared the darkest part of herself with him—voiced things she'd never told another soul—and he was still here. He'd seen the ugliest part of her and instead of rejecting her or regarding her with disgust, he'd brought her into the light.

He was a miracle. _Her _miracle. And if she had to spend the rest of her life working to deserve him, she would do so, gladly.

He'd been so gentle with her last night, coaxing her into the tub and then handing her a glass of wine, waiting for her to slip beneath the bubbles and let the warm water ease the tension in her muscles. The candle he'd dug up had filled the room with flickering shadows, making her feel like the two of them were in their own private, vanilla-scented universe.

Only after she'd closed her eyes and leaned her head back to rest on the tiles behind the tub did he speak. "I love you, Sarah Walker. More than anything."

She'd hummed in response, too moved—and frankly, too much in disbelief—to speak. How could he love her? She'd let the Ice Queen come out to play and put a knife through a man's eye. She was a killer. And Chuck carried spiders outside to save their lives—she'd seen him do it.

She kept her eyes closed, not daring to look at his face. Surely, 'I love you' wasn't the end of that sentence. He must intend to follow it up with 'but'—as in, 'I love you, but after what I saw tonight, I don't think I can be with you anymore.'

But Chuck didn't say another word. Instead she heard the closet door open and close. The bubbles sloshed as he dipped something into the water, and then a washcloth glided over her neck and down to her collarbone.

"I will always love you," he said softly, trailing the washcloth down further still. His movements traced the shape of her breasts, and she resisted the urge to arch into his touch. "No matter what you tell me or what you do."

She was sure he could feel her heart racing through the cloth. "Don't say that, Chuck. Don't make promises you can't keep."

His touch gentle, he slid the washcloth down to her belly. His hand rested there, tantalizing and sure. "Tell me what happened tonight. How you felt. Get it out, so it can't hurt you anymore."

"I don't want to talk about it." Her voice sounded slow, intoxicated—from the wine, from exhaustion, from the warmth of the water seeping into her body, from the feel of his touch.

"You might not want to. But you need to. I'll just listen, if you want. Think of me as … your confessor."

A low laugh escaped her. "Pardon me if you don't exactly remind me of a priest right now."

"I hope that's not a bad thing." The cloth slipped lower, along the length of her inner thigh. It was erotic, sure … but she could also feel the love in the way he touched her. Somehow, some way, he was telling her the truth. No matter what he'd seen tonight, he still wanted her—not just in his bed, but in his heart and his life.

It was that realization, more than anything else, which gave her the courage to speak. "I never wanted you to see me the way you did tonight."

"How? Brave? Strong? Willing to do anything to keep one of your closest friends from being killed by a near-rapist and degenerate?" The conviction in his voice was unmistakable—as was his faith in her.

"Is that how you see me?" She laughed again, but this time it was bitter and so jagged, it tore at her throat.

"Of course I do. How do you see yourself?" His voice was low, soothing, as his fingertips pressed into the arch of one foot, then the other.

Tears slipped from beneath her eyelids, snaking down her cheeks to mingle with the water. "They call me the Ice Queen for a reason. When I killed Channing tonight—when I've killed _anyone_—in that moment, I don't feel hesitation or guilt or regret. I feel nothing at all. It's like I'm not even there, Chuck. Like I'm looking at myself from above. You asked how I see myself? As a cold-blooded sociopath, that's how. Because how else could I do any of those things?"

"You're no sociopath, Sarah."

Again, his voice was filled with such certainty. As wonderful as that made her feel, he was deluded. She had to make him see who she really was, who he said he loved—

"Maybe I wasn't born this way. But how Graham had me trained … what they taught me to do … he made me into a monster, Chuck. His pet monster. I stabbed a man through the eye tonight and all I could think was how much he deserved to die. I analyzed the situation, figured out the most efficient way to make that happen, and executed my strategy—along with Channing. How does that make me anything other than a sociopathic freak?"

She heard the sound of him draping the washcloth over the side of the tub. Then his good hand slid into her hair, running through the strands with a gentleness that made her shiver, despite the warmth of the water. "You said that in the moment, you don't feel hesitation or guilt or regret. So what do you feel right now?"

Sarah's breath caught, and with a trembling hand, she brought the glass of wine to her mouth, taking a sip. "I told you. I don't want to talk about this."

"Humor me. Just for a little while. Please."

For a long moment, she said nothing. He didn't press her, just kept stroking her hair. Bubbles sloshed over her body as he scooped water from the tub, rinsing her clean. The sensation was hypnotic. It lulled her, somehow, giving her the confidence to speak. "I feel awful that I took someone's life, no matter how terrible a person he was. Grateful that I was able to save Zondra. Sad, because I'm sure one day you're going to realize how much better you could do and leave me."

His hand left her hair, closing over her fingers and taking the glass from her grasp. "That will never happen, Sarah. For one thing, I'm smart enough to know you're way out of my league. And for another, listen to yourself. You do feel guilt. And regret. And why? Because you're a good person who's been trained to do terrible things. Tonight, those skills might've saved Zondra's life." He gripped her shoulder, steadying her. "A sociopath doesn't feel guilt, Sarah. A sociopath doesn't shed tears because an evil man is dead at her hands. You're strong and beautiful and you're my hero. Heroine. Whatever. There's no one I admire more."

Her eyes fluttered open, and she found the courage to look at his face. The adoration and respect she saw there nearly gutted her. "I wish I could see myself the way you do."

"I'll make you a promise," he said, leaning forward to kiss her. "Someday, I swear you will."

They'd spent the rest of their time in relative silence as Chuck bathed her, the only sounds the lap of water against the side of the tub and her hums of contentment. When she was relaxed enough that she'd feared she might slip down the drain along with the water, she'd gotten out of the tub and he'd handed her a towel without a single lascivious word or glance—another first for Sarah. All he'd wanted was to comfort her … to make sure she knew she was loved, safe, and accepted.

Back in her room—no, _their _room, now that everything was out in the open with Zondra—he'd changed into a borrowed pair of Bryce's sweatpants, then grinned as she'd put on yoga pants and the robot-alien shirt she'd taken from his drawer when she first left Burbank.

"I stand by my previous statement. There's nothing sexier than you in my Optimus Prime T-shirt," he'd said, sitting down on the edge of the bed and smiling up at her.

She couldn't help but smile back. Her hair was still damp, she wasn't wearing a bit of makeup, and her shirt was two sizes too big, but he still thought she was beautiful … apparently, inside and out. She'd told him the truth, told him she expected him to run one day, and somehow he'd managed to make her feel better about the worst, most horrible part of herself.

He might be the furthest thing from a priest she could imagine, but he'd heard her confession and quite literally washed her clean, with a tenderness she'd never felt before. The wine, the bubble bath, the candle—she'd assumed he'd wanted sex, and she'd been on board with that plan. She'd missed him … and she would have done anything to distract herself from the ugliness inside her head. But what he'd given her was so much more than a temporary distraction. He'd offered her intimacy, and given her peace.

She hadn't thought such a thing was possible.

While she'd stood there, marveling at the sense of wonderment that had somehow settled over her, Chuck had finished the glass of Chardonnay and set it down on his nightstand. Then he'd pulled back the covers and patted the space beside him.

It had taken them a couple of minutes to get comfortable, given the situation with his shoulder, but at last he'd settled onto his back and she'd snuggled up against his left side. He'd wrapped an arm around her, holding her close. "You can go to sleep, Sarah," he'd whispered into her hair. "I promise I'll be here when you wake up."

Well, he'd kept his promise—and while Sarah still felt comforted by his presence in the daylight, the feel of his body against hers and the realization that they were alone, in a bed together for the first time since those stolen hours in Burbank, made her want more than to simply feel safe. She wanted to be with him, wounded shoulder and all.

She felt his lips graze her hair. "Good morning, gorgeous."

"Morning." Pulling back to get a look at his face, she scrutinized him. His color looked good, the circles beneath his eyes fading. "How do you feel?"

"Waking up with you? Like the luckiest guy ever born."

Sarah made a derisive sound. "I meant your arm."

"Oh, that. It still hurts a little. But it's much better, I swear." He rested a hand on her hip. "And you? How do you feel?"

She knew what he was asking, and fought to hold his gaze. For once, it wasn't as difficult as usual. "I feel better, too. Thank you"—she cleared her throat—"thank you for making me talk. And for listening to me. And for believing in me."

"I always have." He held her closer. "I always will."

Traffic had begun to stir on the street outside. She could hear cars going by, as well as the sound of people talking beneath their window—which meant they had a limited amount of time before reality came crashing in again. Sarah intended to make the most of every minute.

"Hang on," she told Chuck, pulling away.

He made a discontented sound low in his throat. "Where are you going?"

"Not far. Don't worry." Reaching over to the nightstand for the pack of mints she'd purchased at Trader Joe's with this very occasion in mind—hey, a girl could dream—she popped one into her mouth.

Chuck gave a husky laugh. "I guess the Boy Scout motto goes for CIA agents too, huh? Always be prepared."

"I'm willing to share." Deftly, she slid a mint between his lips.

"Would it be too forward to imagine this means you plan on kissing me?" He looked up at her, his eyes shining with amusement—and a deeper emotion she recognized all too well, since she felt the echo of it within herself. For the first time, the love she felt for Chuck didn't frighten her, or make her feel unworthy. She watched the sunlight slant across his face and envisioned a world where the two of them could wake up together like this every day … not in some stupid safe house with Zondra and Bryce right down the hall, but in a home of their own.

"Oh," she said airily, pulling his T-shirt over her head, "I plan on doing a lot more than that."

"Do tell."

"I'll do you one better. I'll show you." She dropped the T-shirt to the floor beside the bed and shimmied out of her yoga pants. His eyes followed her every move, darkening as she tugged his sweatpants off and climbed on top of him, relishing the feel of his body beneath hers. "Today's your lucky day, Chuck Bartowski. You're hurt, so you get to lie back and let me do all the work."

Reaching up with his good hand, he cupped her cheek. "Maybe I should get shot more often."

"Don't you dare," she said, and bent down to kiss him. Her tongue traced the seam of his lips, then slipped inside as his hand slid downward, gripping her hips, guiding her.

They did eventually make it to breakfast, but Bryce's much-maligned eggs had long since gone cold.

OoOoOoOoO

Zondra turned out the bathroom light and made her way toward the kitchen. She'd intended to shower the night before, but after Bryce had walked her to her—_his?_—room and tucked her in, she'd instantly fallen asleep, both emotionally and physically drained. Between the stress of the mission and the night's revelations, she'd slept like the dormouse in Alice in Wonderland. Unfortunately, much like the dormouse, she'd woken to find herself still in the midst of the Mad Hatter's proverbial tea party. The world was upside down, and without caffeine, she didn't have any hope of righting it again.

Hell, even with caffeine, she didn't know if she could make sense of the past twenty-four hours—but a strong cup of joe would definitely be a good start.

The faint scent of vanilla hung in the air as she walked down the hall. Sarah must've drawn herself a bubble bath last night after everyone had gone to bed; when Zondra'd gone in to take her shower, she'd noticed a half-melted candle sitting on the edge of the counter and seen a scrim of soapsuds clinging to the side of the tub. With everything that'd happened the night before, Zondra couldn't blame Walker for wanting to unwind. She deserved anything she wanted after taking out that sleazebag, Channing—may he rot in hell—saving Zondra's life in the process. She just hoped Sarah had found some form of peace, although Zondra was finding none for herself at the moment.

Yeah, she needed caffeine and lots of it.

No one else was awake, so she tried to keep quiet as she filled the coffeepot with water and located the beans. That proved to be a bit of a challenge, since Sarah or Bryce had purchased whole beans from some gourmet roastery and she had to hunt for the grinder, then dump the beans in and run the water to muffle the sound.

When she glanced more closely at the bag, though, she noticed that the beans in question were Brazilian dark roast—her favorite. A coffee snob, she'd made this blend all the time back at the Farm, the one indulgence she'd allowed herself … other than nerdy movies and sex with He Who Must Not Be Named. Was it possible that Bryce had remembered, and purchased this for her?

Surely not. Then again, he had a picture of them in his bedside table. By his own admission, he'd watched _The Princess Bride _two dozen times or more. He'd said she was everything to him.

And here she was wearing his shirt—yet again—because she had no clean clothes of her own.

"Goddamn tricky son-of-a-bitch," she muttered, dumping the ground coffee into the filter.

"I hope you're not talking about me."

Bryce's voice came from behind her, startling her so badly she lost her grip on the grinder. Coffee flew everywhere, getting in her hair … down his shirt … on the floor.

"Jesus!" she said, spinning to face him.

"Now I know you're not talking about me. Unless I've become a candidate for sainthood in the past twelve hours, which I seriously doubt." He reached out, brushing the grinds from her hair.

Zondra scooted backward, which wasn't much of an improvement, since the counter was behind her and she'd effectively cornered herself. "I wasn't talking about you. I was talking about the coffeemaker. It's … tricky."

"Like Run DMC?" Now he was openly laughing at her.

"No, you asshat. Like someone who sneaks up on unsuspecting women and causes them to fuck up their access to the only substance that has a prayer of making this shitty morning any better." She scowled at him, and he backed up, palms raised in surrender.

"Far be it from me to squander your Brazilian dark roast, Princess Buttercup."

So he _had_ purchased it for her. How was she supposed to unpack that little tidbit?

She opened her mouth to ask, but he'd already backed up and was pulling half-and-half out of the fridge. It was hard to yell at a guy who was facilitating your access to primo java, so she busied herself with fixing the mess she'd made and setting the coffeepot to brew.

"Here," he said, setting the creamer on the counter and opening another cabinet. "I picked this up for you yesterday. Peace offering?"

When she turned, he was holding a small shaker of nutmeg and another of cocoa. She'd always mixed them into her coffee, giving the illusion of a deluxe barista beverage at the fraction of the price.

He held them out, looking hopeful. "I would've gotten something to steam your milk with—what do you call it? A wand? But they don't sell those at Trader Joe's."

"You're impossible," she said, taking the shakers from him.

"I know," he said, raising his trademark eyebrow. "You want the blue mug or the one with the picture of Castro on it? Someone's sick idea of a joke."

"As long as it'll hold caffeine, I don't care." She held out her hand and he handed her a light blue mug, chipped at the edges. It had seen better days, but right now all she cared about was that it didn't have a hole in it. Grabbing the coffeepot, she poured the four inches that had managed to brew into her cup, dumped in cream, the sugar that Bryce wordlessly pointed out, and her nutmeg and cocoa, then leaned against the counter and sipped.

"Better?" he said after a long minute, during which she managed to drain the entire cup.

She lifted one shoulder and let it fall. "In a manner of speaking. But now I'm hungry."

"I'll make you breakfast."

"More burnt eggs? No thank you." The retort came out before she could stop it. She hadn't meant to show him she cared that much about what he said—for good or ill.

He regarded her impassively, his own half-full coffee cup in hand. "Have I done something to make you angry? I mean—lately?"

They were treading way too close to territory she'd prefer to avoid. "I'm grumpy. Just ignore me."

"Not a chance. What's on your mind?" Narrowing his eyes, he set his mug on the counter. Fidel glared back at her, which Zondra found aggravating. She didn't think she could take being double-teamed by an evil dictator and a two-faced, supposedly-love-besotted spy this early in the morning.

"Fine." She set her own mug down and swiveled to face him, arms crossed over her chest. "Did you make Walker breakfast like this every morning? Because you sure as hell never made it for me."

His eyes shuttered, the familiar blank expression coming over his face. "Is that what this is about?"

"Partially. Maybe. Just answer the question."

Bryce drew a deep breath, and for a moment she thought he was just going to walk away—but he stood his ground. "I'm not in the habit of making anyone breakfast every morning. Including myself. You might've noticed I'm not exactly a gourmet chef, Zondra. Women aren't lining up, clamoring for my Eggs Benedict."

If he wasn't going to back down, neither would she. "I didn't ask if you made Walker a crappy breakfast. Or if she ate the breakfast you made her. Just … if you went to the trouble."

His expression softened, and he took a step toward her. "It wasn't like that between us. It never was. Maybe I deluded myself into thinking it might become more … but that was just because I knew I couldn't have you."

"How could you know such a thing? You never tried!" Her voice rose, despite her intentions to keep quiet.

"I know," he said, his eyes fixed on hers, "because I wouldn't let myself."

Silence descended between them.

What did that mean? He wouldn't let himself—because he cared too much about her? What kind of screwy logic was that?

"You might have noticed … or maybe not—I know how you are in the absence of your morning caffeine fix—that I am out here with you. Whereas Sarah is … well, let's see. Chuck isn't on the couch. And her bedroom door is closed. So I can only deduce that they are in there together." He gave her a guileless grin. "The two of them are actually kind of perfect for each other. And besides … I have no interest in Walker, Zondra. I do have an interest in you, though. Specifically, in making you breakfast."

"That's just what you _would _say." She stomped over to the coffeemaker and refilled her cup. "Is that what you told the woman at Dalia's Cleaning Services when you scammed the keycard off of her?"

His eyebrows rose—both of them, this time. "What makes you so sure it was a woman?"

"Wasn't it?"

Bryce gave her a measured stare, looking amused. "It was."

"Uh huh. And just how did you manage to get the card so easily? No—don't tell me. Let me guess." She slopped way too much half-and-half into her coffee.

"You think I seduced her out of her keycard? And then came back here and bared my heart to you?" A note of incredulity crept into his voice.

"That," she said, returning his stare, "is exactly what I think."

Without a word, he spun on his heel and marched out of the room. She followed him, more aggravated than ever. It was just like him to run away right in the middle of a—

"Here." He'd stopped by the couch and was rummaging in his bag. "My secret weapon. Causes women to fall at my feet wherever I go."

She looked at what he had in his hand, prepared to give him a piece of her mind—and realized he was holding a tranq gun.

"Twilight darts," he said, his voice even. "That's how I got the card. I could've seduced her, sure. But I didn't want to. Like I told you. I want you."

Zondra was speechless.

"Now," he said, the note of amusement creeping back into his voice again, "if you're done berating me and questioning my motives, would you allow me to make you breakfast?"

It was her turn to quote _The Princess Bride_—but this time she stole Westley's line. "As you wish," she said with as much dignity as she could manage, and, turning, strode back into the kitchen, Bryce trailing in her wake.

She refilled her coffee mug again as he pulled the carton of eggs out of the refrigerator and cracked three into a bowl. "I hope you like scrambled. It's the only kind I know how to make."

"And if I said I didn't? Would you still make me breakfast?"

Splashing some half-and-half into the bowl, he gave her the side-eye. "I would. But it would go from being almost inedible to damn-I-wish-I'd-stopped-at-McDonald's."

"I don't eat McDonald's," she pointed out. Fast food of any kind had fallen off her radar years ago, unless she was on a mission and had no other choice. She was a culinary snob too, and not embarrassed to admit it.

"My point exactly." He whisked the eggs as if they'd done something to deserve punishment. At this rate, they'd be beaten to a more grievous extent than Edward VI's whipping boy.

"Bryce—" she began, in an attempt to save her breakfast from utter annihilation.

He held up a hand, forestalling further comment. "If you're going to give me feedback on my cooking skills, kindly refrain. I'm making breakfast for you—mistakes and all. If you help, it doesn't count."

"It also doesn't count if I can't eat it," she mumbled under her breath.

"Can't hear you." He'd found a skillet somewhere and was melting butter at way too high of a temperature. She could smell it browning from across the room. "Ah—perfect," he said happily, dumping the eggs in and poking at them with a metal spatula—in a nonstick pan. "One order of scrambled eggs, coming right up."

Zondra put her head in her hands.

A few minutes passed, during which she fought the urge to look up. There was no need to; the smell of burnt eggs had once again filled the kitchen.

"Um." Bryce's voice had turned tentative. "That's weird. I swear I was watching it the whole time. But then how is it—"

"Burnt?" She sighed, talking to her palms. "Because you … oh, never mind. I appreciate the thought, but I really am hungry. Can you just please let me—"

"Absolutely not! I said I'd cook you breakfast and I meant it. Just give me a chance to try again."

They were still arguing over who would get to commandeer the cooking, Bryce's scorched eggs congealing in the pan, when Chuck and Sarah walked into the kitchen—looking a bit worse for wear.

"Burnt again, I see," Walker said, heading straight for the coffeepot. "I'm shocked. Creamer?"

Sighing, Bryce passed her the half-and-half and backed away from the stove. "It's not like you're a culinary genius, Sarah. But by all means, give it your best shot. You did save Zondra's life, after all. Maybe she'll be nicer to _you_."

Zondra bit back a retort as Sarah poured two more cups of coffee, emptying the carafe. She handed one to Chuck, dumped the ruined eggs into the trash, and set to work, attempting to salvage what was left of breakfast.

One reason Zondra'd held her tongue was because she knew Sarah could take care of herself—and quite frankly, she'd been looking forward to seeing Walker decimate the guy. But Sarah didn't say a word. In fact, she hummed as she handed the mug to Chuck—a bizarre turn of events, given that before this morning, Zondra would've sworn Walker was as likely to hum as she was to tap dance to _Singing in the Rain.  
_

She looked more closely at her friend—and understood. A frisson of jealousy coursed through her at the sight of Sarah's rosy cheeks, the unmistakable post-coital bliss that colored her features. There was no other word for it—Walker was glowing.

Was Zondra jealous of the fact that Walker'd been with Chuck … or just how happy her friend looked? Either way, it didn't reflect well on Zondra—unless she was actually in love with Chuck. But she couldn't be, could she? It would be way too Jerry Springer for her to be in love with her best friend's guy … not to mention, at the Saville, she'd told Sarah she still had feelings for Bryce. But that had been before her revelation—before Chuck had been willing to give his life to save hers.

Was she in love with Chuck—or just the idea that someone would make that kind of sacrifice for her? That there was a guy out there, a smart, good-looking guy, who would treat her with kindness and respect?

There wasn't enough coffee in the world for this three-ring circus. Maybe breakfast would help.

Zondra didn't advertise it—and she didn't often have a willing audience, after all—but she loved to cook. Between missions, she'd taken cooking classes in a wide variety of international cuisines. If she hadn't become a spy, she would've loved to be a gourmet chef. But this wasn't the morning to showcase her skill set, so she shook off her uneasy feeling and helped Sarah make an all-American breakfast—bacon, eggs, and fruit.

Bryce had long since fled the kitchen, and Chuck had bowed out with an apology, given his out-of-commission arm, so it was just Zondra and Sarah, working side by side. Sarah kept giving Zondra loaded glances, but she didn't speak and so neither did Zondra, except for occasional requests to pass the butter or flip the bacon.

When the food was done, the two of them brought the plates out to the living room where everyone sat, eating in silence—the scraping of plates and utensils the only sounds.

Great. More silence. Maybe no one would ever speak again. They'd communicate in code, because it was too awkward to do anything else.

She was on the verge of brewing more coffee—maybe with a shot of Baileys?—when Sarah reached for the duffle bag they'd dumped the Fulcrum intel into, unzipped it, and spoke. Her tone was brisk, which was a relief. Zondra didn't think she could stand hearing Walker sound all lovey-dovey … not today.

"We'll need to report into Graham ASAP," she said. "After we called in the cleaners last night, he'll know something went down and expect an update."

"Agreed," Bryce said, setting his plate down with a distinct air of relief. "How do you want to handle this?"

Sarah ran the tip of her index finger across her lips. "First, we should sort through everything so we know what we're dealing with before handing Graham the kitchen sink. No need to give him an advantage we could use against him or to protect ourselves."

"I say we start by using the mobile scanner to digitize all the paper files." Chuck gestured at the scanner in the corner, next to the TV. "Then we'll just need to copy the data from the discs and thumb drives to the hard drive. Once everything's there, I'll be able to organize everything logically so we can sort through it."

"On it," Bryce said, getting to his feet with alacrity. Zondra couldn't help but think he was as relieved to have a course of action to pursue as she was.

While Bryce fed page after page through the scanner, Sarah placed each disk in the computer's optical drive for Chuck to copy. Finally, he inserted the thumb drive and copied its data, moving on to unencrypting the files that needed it. Zondra was worried that might pose a problem, but Chuck just hummed and typed away, as happy as a tornado in a trailer park.

Awesome—more humming. Was there a soundtrack to their mission Zondra ought to know about? And was she the only one who felt superlatively awkward?

She glanced over at Bryce, and suddenly felt less alone. Finished with his task, he was poking at his uneaten fruit, looking morose. As attractive as Zondra found Bryce's usual air of confidence, she had to admit that she could get used to this new, merely-human version. That didn't mean she'd forgiven him for treating her like crap … but at least she'd moved on from wanting to punch him in the face every time he opened his mouth.

OoOoOoOoO

Chuck was back in his element. His happy place. He held black belts in both bits and bytes. With a keyboard, mouse, and some data to manipulate, he knew he could do anything. There'd be no one who could ever hope to snatch the digital pebble from his hand. This was his world and he had yet to be dethroned. And after all the incredible and possibly highly illegal things—at least in some states—that Sarah'd done to him this morning, his confidence was riding an all-time high.

With his wounded body reinvigorated by Sarah's delicious ministrations, he got back to work. It didn't take him long to organize all of Fulcrum's intel into searchable rows and columns as he hummed along to the song that'd been stuck in his head for days. Dylan's '_The Times They Are A-Changin' _was one of Chuck's all-time favorites and suited their situation, but its sea-shanty melody was starting to annoy him—and he was sure it was driving everyone around him nuts too, even if they hadn't said a word. As Chuck indexed the data, he tried to think of something else to listen to as soon as possible so 'The Voice of Protest' was no longer stuck on repeat.

"Hang on," he said, feeling self-conscious at the idea of Sarah, Bryce, and Zondra staring at him as he worked—and hummed. "Just putting some finishing touches on a database, so we can search it for what we need … and … done." He looked up, making sure all three of them were ready for him to continue. "Okay, let's see what Fulcrum's been up to."

The paper files turned out to be most, if not all, of Fulcrum's financial records of their operations in California. The bastards were involved in everything from drug trafficking to extortion and blackmail of local and state officials. Based on what Chuck saw on the first few pages alone, he knew this would turn out to be a crippling blow to Fulcrum no matter what else they found—but then things got a lot more personal.

He opened another document—and saw a name he hadn't heard since his flash, when Zondra first walked into Casey's apartment and into Chuck's life. It seemed like such a long time ago.

"Um … guys," he said, his voice cautious, "wasn't the Gentle Hand Augusto Gaez's outfit?"

Zondra glanced over at Sarah, who was studiously staring at the floor. "Yeah," Z said, when it was clear Sarah wasn't going to speak. "Why?"

"Says here that they're at least working with Fulcrum, if not part of it. Looks like they've been running guns out of South America—Rio de Janeiro, to be exact—to help fund Fulcrum's operations back here in the states." His hands shook with excitement as he typed in his next query. He held his breath as the computer paused, processing his request—and then felt a smile light his face as the results came up on his screen. "Lookie here … Gaez _does_ have a contact within the CIA. Does the name Agent Amy Monroe ring any bells?"

Sarah's head jerked up as Chuck looked at her, then at Zondra, his hands outstretched. "Ta da!" he said, not caring how cheesy it sounded. He could feel his eyes sparkling with happiness, his smile growing so big, he was worried he might break something. Zondra had finally been vindicated, even if she was currently considered rogue by one part of the government and dead by another.

"Holy shit," Z said, incredulity clear in her voice. She turned to face Sarah, probably hoping to see her joy mirrored on her friend's face—but Sarah looked devastated. Tears formed on her lashes, her bottom lip quivering.

"I'm so sorry, Z," she whispered. "I'm the worst friend in the world. You'd have every right to hate me for what I've put you through."

After last night—not to mention the fact that her name had just been cleared—Zondra apparently had no patience for guilt trips or recrimination. "Aww, come on, Wee-Wee Walker," she said, her lips twitching. "Amy obviously framed me to turn us all against one another, deflecting suspicion from herself. I'm just glad to be part of the team that'll end up being responsible for burying the conniving bitch. Pretty sure there's gonna be a burn notice put out on her head by this afternoon, and it's all because of what we've been able to accomplish here … together."

_Wee-Wee Walker? _What the hell was that all about?

Whatever it was, it wasn't nearly as important as the reunion that was taking place in front of him—something that Chuck had hoped for ever since Zondra had told him she was innocent. Sarah stood, walked over to where Z was sitting on the loveseat, and wrapped her arms around her. She leaned in to whisper in Zondra's ear, just loud enough that Chuck could hear. "I'm afraid an apology doesn't even begin to cover it, Z. I owe you big time."

Zondra just squeezed her friend back, looking as if she was reveling in the love and sincerity that poured through Sarah's embrace. It didn't matter what'd happened between them before, or what Sarah had been tricked into believing. As for Amy, Chuck was sure she'd get what she had coming to her.

When Zondra pulled away, Sarah sat down on the loveseat beside her. Chuck regarded the two of them with elation, his vision blurring at the corners.

"Well," he said, clearing his throat, "now that that's out of the way, let's talk about what was on the thumb drive. I think you guys are going to be satisfied. Suffice it to say that the veil's just been ripped from Fulcrum's immediate and long-term plans."

'Satisfied' was a mild term for what he imagined the three agents would feel. Listed in the files were hundreds of names and dossiers of CIA, NSA, FBI, and DEA agents and assets, either within Fulcrum's grasp already or being targeted for induction.

"This is insane," Zondra said as she watched the list of names scroll down the TV's screen, where Chuck had redirected them so everyone could see. "You know what this means, don't you?"

Bryce spoke up for the first time since he'd walked over to feed the pages through the scanner. "There's about to be an intelligence purge. A massive one. All these people—they'll have to go to ground if they want to continue living—or, in a best-case scenario, be arrested if they turn themselves in."

Chuck figured Bryce was right. Not only that, but—irony of ironies—he'd bet Sarah and Bryce would likely receive substantial accolades because of this mission. Based on their reactions, this was unlike anything they'd seen or heard of before. The ripple effects could last years.

"And now for the pièce de résistance," Chuck said, bringing something else up on screen with a flourish, "the discs. Why would Fulcrum go through the trouble of burning discs when they could've easily transmitted or stored the information digitally like the rest of the intel? These files contain the most sensitive data Fulcrum has, I'm sure of it."

As it turned out, everything on all three discs pertained to the elusive Project Janus that Sarah had told Chuck about over a month ago. From what Chuck could remember from their conversation, Janus just consisted of Fulcrum's plans to steal the intel from the government. The information on the discs encompassed far more—everything needed for a fully functional Intersect computer. Chuck shuddered at the thought.

Fulcrum had divided their plans to build their own Intersect into three phases: Intelligence, Hardware, and Software. Chuck opened the 'Intelligence' folder first. As they'd suspected, this was Fulcrum's plan to gain access to secure NSA facilities and go after the raw data. After all, without the intelligence to encode into the images used during the upload, the Intersect would be useless.

Fulcrum's schemes to gain access relied heavily on a Nathan Page and Troy Mason. Apparently, Page was the only person with full clearance to all of the facilities in question. Fulcrum had planned on kidnapping Page's girlfriend, Monica Whittaker, to blackmail him into stealing both CIA and NSA databases. Once they had the data, they'd use Mason to unencrypt the highly classified intelligence.

The files didn't detail how Fulcrum planned on forcing Mason to do what they wanted. Maybe he was already in their back pocket and they didn't need to coerce him any further. If Mason didn't work out, though, there was a contingency plan in place to use someone from the L.A. area. The only clue as to who it might be were the initials _V.H_. With any luck, Casey might be able to take what they had and flesh out some more details.

Chuck moved on to the 'Hardware' folder. The four of them sat, staring at the screen, as he scrolled through the various diagrams and schematics, including what looked like a complete blueprint for the Intersect itself … or at least Fulcrum's version of it.

Based on what Chuck could decipher, Fulcrum was a lot closer to replicating the Intersect than Graham or Beckman had ever suspected. They'd even tested a prototype, but with disastrous results. Most of the test subjects had died within minutes of the upload, either from a brain aneurysm or other forms of hemorrhagic stroke. The few that did survive the upload had instantly gone mad, displaying either sociopathic rage or complete psychotic breaks.

"This is—this is—" Chuck swallowed hard, his stomach rolling as he flipped through photos of the unwilling victims of Fulcrum's sick science experiments. "How can they use people like this?"

Bryce looked as ill as Chuck felt. "Because they're vicious, Chuck, and they'll stop at nothing to get what they want," he said, shooting Chuck an empathetic glance. "But with this information, we can hopefully decimate their operations so they can never do something like this again."

Nodding wordlessly, Chuck continued reading. "There's a bunch of stuff in here about something called the 'Cipher' that's supposedly in the process of being built. It sounds like some kind of central processing unit for the Intersect, but thousands of times faster and more complex than anything I've ever heard of."

Chuck opened an internal memo pertaining to the subject at hand and they all read it in silence. After the first test subjects died, Fulcrum had decided to start hedging their bets. Should Fulcrum's own Cipher design not pan out, they'd need contingency plans in place. Knowing that the government would be designing and building their own version—as well as that they'd already pulled off a working Intersect computer once before—Fulcrum planned on doing what they did best … stealing it. Should Fulcrum get word through their extensive alphabet grapevine that the government's Cipher was nearing completion, a group with the oh-so innocuous name of 'The Children of Colossus' were the primary faction assigned to take on that task.

"The Cipher?" Sarah said, her voice skeptical. "Never heard of such a thing."

"Me either," Chuck said grimly, moving on to the 'Software' file folder.

Evidently, while Fulcrum was plush with thugs and henchmen, they were sorely lacking in the brains department—specifically, those with the scientific background necessary to design and program something as complicated as the Intersect. Chuck flipped through the dossiers of one scientist after another, from mathematicians to engineers, programmers to neuroscientists. Next to each name, Fulcrum had noted their importance and the organization's intent to conscript each scientist into servitude.

"What the hell?" Chuck said as the next dossier came up on the screen. His fingers froze on the keys as his worlds collided.

In large, bold capital letters, the name on the dossier read, _DR. ELEANOR FAYE BARTOWSKI.  
_

"They want Ellie? My sister?" His voice shook … and then it hit him in the face like a bucket of ice-cold water. "But what would they do to her if she said no? Oh, my God! We've got to—"

"Chuck—" Bryce began, but before he could utter another word, Sarah leapt from her seat and knelt on the floor next to the couch. She rubbed the back of his neck, her fingers snaking through his curls, talking to him in a soothing voice that was barely above a whisper. "Listen to me, Chuck … you, your sister, and Devon are my whole world now. My family—the only real one I've ever known. I will never allow anything to happen to any of you. That's my solemn promise. We'll get word to Casey too, so he's aware of what's going on … but Chuck … remember that we've just thrown a massive monkey wrench into Fulcrum's plans to press-gang any of these scientists into service. I doubt anyone within Fulcrum's ranks would dare approach any of them now that they've been exposed. You've not only saved countless lives with your brilliant, beautiful mind, but you've probably saved Ellie and Devon's too."

He closed his eyes for a moment, letting her words sink in. Sarah had ninja moves and spycraft—but knowledge was the only weapon Chuck had at his disposal. The thought of gaining more crucial information—information he could use to protect himself and his family—was only thing holding him together in the face of this newest revelation. He'd absorb all that he could before allowing himself to take the inevitable nosedive … and with Sarah by his side, she'd be there to catch him when he fell.

Chuck kissed Sarah's cheek and found the strength to sit up straight. Flexing his fingers as she took a seat next to him, he attacked the keys once again. "Let's finish this."

The last file was marked as 'critical for operations.' Fulcrum was desperate to find a group called 'The Three Kings.' According to the file, without the Kings, Fulcrum would have no hope of having a fully functional Intersect. As with their efforts to find Bryce, they were utilizing a tremendous amount of time and resources, but were currently at a complete loss.

When they'd all had a chance to read through everything, Chuck repackaged the intelligence into a zipped folder with his own encryption methods, explaining as he went. Then he connected to his remote server to upload it. Watching the progress bar snake across the screen, he felt a tickle in the back of his mind—a nagging feeling that he should know who or what The Three Kings were. He gave it up as a bad job when the file completed its upload.

"I didn't see anything in those documents that would give us any advantages against Graham—or Beckman, for that matter," he said, his tone level. "I vote we turn everything over to him. There are some serious national security issues at stake and I'd hate it if we held onto something that might save lives."

"I agree with Chuck," Zondra said, weighing in. "As much as I hate the idea of that bastard putting another feather in his cap, there's the good of the country to think about."

He gave her a grateful smile. "I just ask that we share everything with Casey. With Team Intersect temporarily disbanded, I have a feeling the various agencies within the government aren't as prone to sharing as they once were." Sitting back, he closed the laptop and looked at each of them in turn. "Most importantly, Casey needs to know everything we do if he's to continue protecting my family. I was really unnerved to see Ellie's dossier in there."

Still sitting next to him on the couch, Sarah patted his hand. "Try not to worry, Chuck. I'll make sure Casey knows everything, as well as Ellie and Devon. They'll all need to stay vigilant." She got to her feet, smoothing her clothes. Chuck knew her well enough to interpret the series of constrained movements for what they were—Sarah's attempt to repress her desire to leap into the Porsche and speed down the highway, back to Burbank. When it came to protecting the people she cared about, she only trusted other people so far.

"Before we do anything else, we need to call Graham," Bryce said, cradling his phone in his hand. "Do you want to do it, or should I?"

"Be my guest." Sarah squared her shoulders.

Bryce dialed Graham's number, this time leaving it on speakerphone. A moment later, the Director answered.

"Graham, secure."

"Walker and Larkin secure and reporting in, sir," Bryce replied.

Chuck and Zondra listened as Sarah and Bryce brought the Director up to speed, embellishing where necessary. When they finished, the excitement in Graham's voice was palpable.

"I'm afraid 'a job well done' doesn't even begin to cover it, agents. What you've done for your country as well as this agency will live on within the halls of Langley long after you and I are gone. You can both expect promotions as well as commendations to be placed in your permanent records."

"Thank you, sir," Sarah said, sounding modest, with the perfect hint of gratitude. Her expression belied her tone, though, and swiveling to look at Zondra and Chuck, she rolled her eyes.

Before Burbank, Chuck thought there might have been a time that Sarah would have been over the moon to hear that kind of praise from Graham. Now, he was sure it meant less than nothing.

"I've said it before and I'll say it again. You two are the tip of the spear in our fight against Fulcrum," Graham said. "I'll arrange for a courier to pick up the intelligence later this afternoon at a remote location that will be determined. In the meantime, I want you to concentrate your efforts on Whittaker, Page, and Mason. We can't afford for Fulcrum to have any leverage over Page by snagging Whittaker out from under our noses."

"Understood." Bryce's voice was calm, but his hands were balled into fists. Chuck was sure that, having once been in Fulcrum's clutches, seeing the extent of their brutality in black and white had to be jarring for him … to say the least.

"I'll make sure the DNI as well as Page is aware of the threat," Graham went on. "We'll need a team on Whittaker at all times and I want Agent Walker to make contact with Mason. I'm disturbed that there's no obvious carrot or stick with his involvement with Fulcrum. His residence is just across the bridge in Oakland. Find out which one it is and stay in close contact with him, Agent Walker. Understood?"

"Yes, sir." Sarah said obediently—then bared her teeth at the phone.

"Good day, agents," Graham said, and disconnected the call.

"So," Sarah said as soon as they'd hung up, "I'll go ahead and send Casey that email, and then we can—"

Her voice trailed off as she caught sight of Chuck. He'd sat up straight, his eyes wide.

"You okay?" she said, eyebrows lowering in concern.

"Oh my God, Sarah." His gaze roved between each of the agents, settling on Sarah's face. "You won't believe this—but I think I figured out who The Three Kings might be."

* * *

A/N: We know there's a lot to unpack in this chapter! Some of you might've picked up on references that exist in canon for Season 2. While our version will contain a few similarities to canon—the bad guys will still be bad guys—most of what we have in mind going forward is completely AU. That said, if certain episodes of the show don't drive our version of the story, we'll gloss over them in future chapters. We've got an overarching plotline in mind and anything we include going forward will exist in service to that plot.

A/N #2: We had fun transforming Bryce into a willing—but dreadful—short order cook and Zondra into a gourmet chef. And, of course, Chuck's brilliant mind and stellar hacking skills once again saved the day. Let us know what you think—please leave a review! It means a lot to us to hear your feedback … the more we all support each other's stories, the more this community will grow and thrive.

As always, thanks for reading.


	20. Schemes, Scallops, and Shark's Teeth

Chapter Twenty … in which Casey courts death, Zondra questions her judgment, Chuck confronts the unexpected, and Bryce's sincerity is called into question—again.

This chapter takes place three months after the last chapter in our story. Since the bank heist, Fulcrum has gone to ground, giving our characters time to scheme.

Disclaimer: We don't own Chuck…

* * *

**Chapter 20: ****Schemes, Scallops, and** **Shark's Teeth  
**

Bullets riddled the brick wall's cornerstone a fraction of a second after Major John Casey stepped around it, sending mortar flak flying everywhere. The distinct jingle-jangle of the casings hitting the concrete floor echoed through the hallway as angry metal bees whizzed past his head, on a mission to sting, bite, or chew their way through his flesh. He was pinned down, with no apparent means of escape, and they were closing in. His SIG-Sauer P229 had half a mag left—then it'd just be his knuckles, knives, and know-how. How in the hell had it come to this?

Now he was just kidding himself. He knew exactly how he'd wound up in this godforsaken place. After Bartowski and Walker dumped an email full of Fulcrum secrets into his lap three months ago, he and Ilsa'd been running at a fever-pitched pace, trying to keep up with the fallout. They'd spent the past twelve weeks on one fruitless scouting mission after another—and they were no closer to discovering the identity of the enigmatic cryptographer 'V.H.' who was supposedly lurking in the L.A. area or locating any other rogue factions, Fulcrum or otherwise, than they'd been before.

At least they hadn't been … until today.

Casey backed further down the corridor, his gun trained on the corner he'd just taken, checking the empty offices along the way in search of cover. While he tried each door, hoping to find one unlocked, he'd allowed his mind to drift, thinking about how odd—and yet how natural—it felt to link their names together once again. They hadn't been "Casey and Ilsa" for a long, long time … and when they had been, their names had only been paired romantically—or whatever you wanted to call it—and then _only_ with each other. Now they were full-blown partners, thanks to the collaboration between the NSA and the NGSE.

After Ilsa'd divulged that French Intelligence had knowledge of Fulcrum _and_ the Cipher, Casey'd felt like he had no choice but to read her in on what he was doing in Burbank, Intersect and all. Once he'd finished, it'd taken another half-bottle of Johnnie Walker for them to conclude that combining their efforts, as well as their agencies, was the only way forward … and then persuade the leadership of their respective agencies to agree. So now here they were, together in every sense of the word—and if she spent more time sleeping at his place than at the apartment across the courtyard she'd rented after Zondra split … well, no one had to know about that, did they?

Casey reached what looked like a supply closet just as one of the goons came barreling around the corner, firing haphazardly in every direction. The ex-Marine eyed him with contempt, right before putting a slug through his ear.

Five shots left, seven goons to go.

Kicking in the door of the closet, he thought about how thrilled he'd been to have Ilsa back in his life—and in his bed, for the foreseeable future … but not as thrilled as he'd be if she'd show up right now, guns blazing, to help him fight his way out of this mess.

He'd figured the old warehouse would just turn out to be another dead-end lead—after all, the intelligence agency purge that'd resulted from the San Francisco bank heist had forced most rogue agents to go into hiding. So when Ilsa'd offered to come with him to check it out, rather than pursue her own lead a few miles down the road, he'd brushed her off, figuring they could cover more ground this way. Nothing else they'd investigated so far had yielded anything of interest; why should this?

But he'd been wrong. Oh, how wrong he'd been. And now here he was, holding out in a tiny supply closet, without sufficient firepower _or_ his partner—who he'd promised to rendezvous with after he'd checked this place out, for some wine, Wayne, and Coltrane.

Well, unless things changed drastically, the only 'True Grit' shootout he'd get to experience tonight was the one he was currently knee-deep in. Perhaps this had been his destiny all along—to find himself alone and outgunned on the seventh floor of a not-so-abandoned warehouse in downtown Los Angeles, with a militia full of miscreants out for his blood. It seemed he'd gotten too close to someone's base of operations—maybe even the headquarters of that Children of Colossus group Bartowski and Walker had mentioned in the email they'd sent him, detailing all the intel they'd scored from Fulcrum.

He must've stood out like a pregnant pole-vaulter on the warehouse's security cameras when he'd approached the building. It was the only explanation for why these thugs were gunning for him like this, with a single-minded intensity that conveyed a simple, solitary intention: To take him out with extreme prejudice.

Footsteps echoed down the hallway as he stuck his head out of his refuge to check for the imminent onslaught. The coast was still clear. Making a convertible out of that last guy's head must've given the rest some pause—but he knew the respite wouldn't last long. Casey glanced desperately around the storage room, searching for anything that might help him find a way out of what his mother would have called "this foolish coil." And he'd been a fool, no doubt about that. He was outgunned and alone—rookie mistakes, both of them. He should have known better.

There wasn't much in the supply closet that he could use as a weapon, but there was a plethora of cleaning solvents and chemicals. Calling on his military training, Casey grabbed a bottle of turpentine off one of the shelves and mixed it in with a half-gallon jug of isopropyl alcohol. He then ripped a cleaning rag into thin strips, wetting them with the turpentine as he went. Stuffing the strips into the top of the plastic jug, he holstered his gun and stood by the doorway with the jug in one hand, his lighter in the other.

He let his mind go blank as he scanned the area outside the closet, tuning out the roar of voices and the hail of bullets as his assailants shot blindly around the corner. It was a trick he'd taught himself long ago … to leave part of his attention, the crucial part, focused on his surroundings, while letting the superficial layer of his mind wander. The reptilian element of his brain was geared to prioritize survival. If allowed free range, rather than forced scrutiny, it usually found a way out.

Well, it always had before. Here was hoping it didn't let him down today … because otherwise, he was screwed.

He'd lost his focus before—and recently, too … which was the rub. If it wasn't for him, Bartowski would've never wound up on that rooftop, lying in a pool of blood big enough that when Beckman's team analyzed it, they'd come to the conclusion that their pet asset was almost surely dead … _if_ he hadn't been captured by the enemy and saved for their own uses, just like Larkin had been.

Either way, Beckman was still looking for Chuck—Casey was sure of it. No matter what else had happened, 'presumed dead' wasn't the same thing as finding a body, especially when the body in question was that of the country's most prized intelligence asset. They would never stop. And unless they did, Ellie and her newly-minted fiancé—because yeah, she'd said yes to the guy who'd saved her brother's life; how could she not?—would always be in danger.

There was one conundrum Casey couldn't explain, which bugged him no end. The traffic and satellite footage in and around Burbank at the time of Chuck's shooting had all been erased. He'd asked Bartowski, using the video application that Chuck swore was secure … but the erasure hadn't been the moron's doing. And while getting rid of that footage certainly worked to their benefit, it also made Casey uneasy. If someone was helping them, it also meant that that someone knew what was going on. Casey didn't like unknown variables, especially not in a complicated situation like this.

The chatter coming from down the hallway grew louder and more agitated, as if his assailants were gearing up for a pell-mell kamikaze charge. Casey lit the rags and tossed the jug within a few feet of the spot from where the blind shots were emanating. His timing would need to be perfect. He upholstered his gun, trained his sights on the plastic container, and waited.

With a cheesy battle cry, the first guy's gun cleared the corner. Casey fired, hitting the plastic jug dead-center, nearly cutting it in half. A conflagration erupted with a whoosh as the surrounding air was sucked into the chemical reaction. Fire and brimstone spouted from the jug, raining down on four of his attackers, coating them in a makeshift liquid inferno … a veritable molten goo. The remaining men retreated, watching helplessly as their compatriots writhed and thrashed on the ground in a pointless battle to extinguish the hellfire.

Four shots left. Not a bad return on investment, with only three goons to go.

Now that there were more munitions than men left standing—and given that it wasn't in the NSA agent's nature to sit back and wait for the fight to come to him—Casey went on the offensive. With the charring corpses still lighting up the hallway, he decided to use the traffic jam to his advantage. He bum-rushed the bottle-necked junction—no pun intended—and leapt over the flames, spinning in the air.

When his feet hit the ground, Casey let the momentum carry him through and fell to his ass, sliding across the floor as he took aim. Predictably, the last three assailants were all pressed flat, their backs against the wall, lined up like ducks in a row and just as easily dispatched.

Blowing out a steady breath, Casey stood to assess the situation. A ding from the elevator at the far end of the hallway drew his attention. He narrowed his gaze to focus on it—and the largest man he'd ever seen ducked to fit inside the lift. The guy was massive, with skin the color of burnished mahogany and a bulk that would have been at home on a professional linebacker. He spun to look at Casey as the elevator's doors closed, a grimace contorting his face.

Checking to ensure his count was correct and he indeed had one round left, Casey tore off after him, taking the stairs two, sometimes three at a time, hoping to beat the guy to the bottom.

Emerging from the stairwell, he was alarmed to find the mountainous giant already waiting for him right outside the doorway. He tried to lift his arm to take aim, but it was no use. The brute seized Casey by the wrist that held his gun, with hands so large, they could have wrapped around it twice. He flung the NSA agent like a ragdoll, slamming him hard against the opposite wall and sending his gun flying who-knew-where. He tried to stand up, but the Goliath hit him across his jaw hard enough to ensure his ancestors felt it.

A looming shadow engulfed Casey's sight—the gargantuan man closing in for the kill.

Just as Casey started to make his peace with the world and all the things he'd yet to accomplish, a brilliant light enveloped the room, turning everything a radiant white. Thunderous bass cleaved his head in two, leaving him deaf, dumb, and blind.

When Casey's sight cleared, Ilsa was standing over him, worry clear in her eyes, her halo set firmly in place. His head felt like the cracked Liberty Bell. "Casey, are you okay?" she said, shaking his shoulder. "Speak to me!"

He had to clear his throat twice before his voice would work. "What the hell was that?"

"Flashbang," Ilsa said, looking at him like she was worried he'd lost his mind along with his hearing.

He shook his head and immediately regretted it. "No … before that."

A small smile lifted her finely-etched lips. "I'm not sure, but if I had to guess, I'd say part man, part building? Either way, I wasn't about to try and take him down alone, so I … improvised."

"Improvised," Casey croaked, pulling her down into a hug. "Thank God." Over her shoulder, he scanned the space—left, right, then up … just in case.

As happy as he was to see Ilsa, Casey had to admit, he was even happier knowing—

The Colossus of a man was gone.

OoOoOoOoO

Sitting in the surveillance van across from the Café Santana Roasting Company in sunny Oakland, California, Chuck thought Bryce might be on the verge of losing it—and not for the first time today, either.

A muscle twitched at the corner of Bryce's right eye, his mouth forming a scowl. Staring out the van's front window, his hands gripped the dashboard as he muttered incoherently under his breath. Like hail on a metal pane, the drumming of his fingers was as relentless as it was loud—perhaps keeping pace with the rhythm of his heartbeat. His face was rigid with tension, lines marring his ordinarily youthful appearance. In the past few hours alone, Bryce seemed to have aged a decade.

Troy Mason was the source of the problem. Well, that and Zondra's increasingly close proximity to him.

To Chuck's relief, the team had decided that Sarah might not be the best person suited to get close to Mason. Even though Sarah and Bryce had been working with the FBI under aliases, they'd still been in direct contact with two agents who'd turned out to be under Fulcrum's thumb. Now, with ex-FBI agent Juliette Reeves still on the run and her whereabouts unknown, it would have been the height of foolishness to have Sarah be the one to figure out where Mason's loyalties lay. If he turned out to be a Benedict Arnold and was working with Fulcrum, the results could be cataclysmic. Instead, Zondra had volunteered to be the one to approach him, with Chuck and Bryce teaming up for surveillance duty—much to Bryce's chagrin.

Sarah'd decided to handle Monica Whittaker's overwatch herself—in partnership with Jackson, of course—since Bryce insisted on taking point with Zondra and making sure nothing went awry. She'd made contact with Whittaker, letting the woman know that Fulcrum intended to use her as leverage against her boyfriend, Nathan Page. Graham had also reached out to the DNI as promised, advising them of the threat. Whittaker had been reluctant that Sarah and Jackson were watching over her at first—then grateful when the seriousness of the situation settled in. No one from Fulcrum had approached Whittaker so far, but Sarah intended to stay vigilant. After all, the closer she got to Nathan Page's girlfriend, the better her chances of endearing herself to the guy who was her best hope of cultivating an ally within the DNI.

After Graham had issued his orders, the team had spent the better part of a week surveilling Mason—following him, learning his habits … the full gamut. The guy had a set routine from which he never deviated: Wake up, go for a run, go home, shower and dress, then head to Café Santana before he commuted to work, where he taught quantum computing at UC Berkeley, just fifteen minutes away. For a professor, he was absurdly fit; he ran at least five miles every morning and hit the gym on his way home from his day job.

Not only was Mason a brilliant cryptographer, he was—at least in Chuck's opinion—devastatingly handsome. He was around six-one, with wavy brown hair that had a tendency to fall into his gray eyes and a solid build that reflected his obsessive attention to physical fitness. None of this made Bryce feel any better, especially since Zondra had found a way to make herself part of Mason's daily routine.

Café Santana was near Maxwell Park, Mason's neighborhood. Every morning, Mason showed up at the coffee shop for a grande flat white and a blueberry scone … and so Zondra had gotten a part-time job there as a barista. She'd worked there for the past eight weeks, always requesting the morning shift, and befriended Mason—first kibitzing over the routine nature of his order, then moving on to small talk. Zondra hadn't started out intending to seduce the guy, but she was beautiful, charming, and smart. It was inevitable that a straight, single dude like Mason would be entranced by her interest in him.

"Here's your flat white," Zondra said, echoing over the speakers in the surveillance van. "Just the way you like it."

Chuck squinted at the footage on the computer screen, just in time to see her smile at Mason. He was dressed as usual, in dark-wash jeans and a crisp button-down. Also as usual, he returned her smile before taking the drink from her and stuffing a sizeable tip into the jar next to the tea display. Glancing over at the screen, Bryce scowled even harder.

If there were any doubts in Chuck's mind that Bryce's feelings for Zondra were genuine, the past three months had laid that notion to rest. The cocksure-superspy persona that Bryce used to think made him God's gift to all women had been replaced by a somewhat vulnerable, attentive boy that just wanted to get to know the girl better. After Chuck's heart-to-heart with him during the bank mission all those months ago, Bryce was no longer scared to put himself out there—to make a fool of himself by showing Zondra just how he felt. Unfortunately, he was being forced into playing a long game … which was easier on some days than others.

On the screen, Mason sipped his drink, giving a throaty hum of appreciation. "Thanks, Elena," he said, using the alias she was operating under. "This tastes amazing. Your lattes are phenomenal … has anyone told you that? Each one's a masterpiece. You're a latte Keith Haring in the making. An Egon Schiele. A veritable Picasso. Seriously, your work ought to be immortalized." He took another sip, savoring it in an exaggerated fashion, as if the coffee were a fine wine. "I don't know what I did before you started working here—but do me a favor, would you? Don't you ever think of leaving me. My sanity just might depend on it."

"For the love of God," Bryce growled, muting his mic so Zondra couldn't hear. "It's a tasty beverage, not the holy grail. A $5 cup of coffee. I'm telling you, Chuck—there's something _off_ about this guy. I mean, come on—who the hell comes up with cheesy pickup lines like that?"

"You got me, buddy," Chuck said, keeping his voice mild. He couldn't help but feel sorry for Bryce. The guy was trying so hard … and Chuck couldn't imagine what it would feel like to have Sarah overtly flirting with someone else right in front of him, even if he knew it was all in the name of the job. The Peyman Alahi mission came to mind, when a bikini-clad Sarah had temporarily distracted Alahi while Chuck and Carina made off with his diamond. It wasn't the same scenario, but at least it gave Chuck a glimpse into what his friend might be going through.

Although Zondra _was_ friendlier with Bryce these days, she still kept him at arm's length. To Chuck's surprise, that didn't seem to deter Bryce in the least. He gave her space anytime she needed it and didn't push her for anything other than what she was willing to offer. And when her walls did temporarily drop, he spent those precious few moments listening, paying attention to her cues, and engaging her in lively discussions about subjects that mattered to her.

He'd even learned to cook, after a fashion, watching YouTube videos on preparing her favorite foods and then presenting them to her with the gravity of a knight offering a tribute to his lady fair. The burnt eggs for breakfast had long since fallen by the wayside; this past weekend alone, he'd made a spinach-and-mushroom frittata and sat hopefully across from Zondra as he dished it onto her plate, his body tense as a bird dog on point until she'd taken the first bite and smiled at him in affirmation. Chuck didn't know whether to be impressed or disturbed by the intensity of his focus.

"Your scone," Zondra said now, tucking the pastry into a waxed paper bag and holding it out. Mason accepted it, grinning back at her like she'd solved the mysteries of the universe.

"Sometimes I think you know me better than I know myself," he said, dropping the scone into his messenger bag to save for later—the way he did every day.

"It's not that hard." Zondra rolled her eyes. "You always order the same thing."

"Yeah, well, I'm a creature of habit. And I'm glad I am, because otherwise we might've never met." He grinned even wider—if that was humanly possible—flashing his teeth, and Bryce sighed, settling back into the seat of the van.

Chuck adjusted his own position, stretching to ease his cramped muscles. For once, the ache in his limbs wasn't from long hours spent behind a computer or even from being shot—it was from the four-hour workout he'd done the night before, courtesy of the increasingly unnerved spy in the driver's seat.

Bryce's change in demeanor hadn't stopped at how he was treating Zondra; he'd also decided to take Chuck under his wing. With reluctant agreement from both Sarah and Zondra, he'd insisted that part of Chuck's physical therapy for his injured shoulder should be weight training and self-defense.

At first Chuck hadn't taken Bryce all that seriously—the guy was the least likely personal trainer he could imagine, never having focused on anyone other than himself for a prolonged period of time—but true to his word, the next morning Bryce had gone shopping. That afternoon, he'd returned with a rented truck full of equipment … then spent the rest of the evening transforming their garage into a dojo/fitness room. It wasn't an easy or cheap task to undertake and Chuck had a sneaking suspicion that Bryce had paid for everything out of his own pocket.

For the first month they'd stuck to light weights and calisthenics, allowing his shoulder to fully heal while building up his strength and stamina … much to Sarah's delight. Then they'd added heavier weights and begun his self-defense classes, which ended up being a mixed bag of Krav Maga, Judo, Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu, and Muay Thai. Even though it'd started out as Bryce's idea, both Zondra and Sarah had jumped in on the action. So there he was, day after day, getting thrown and pinned to the mat by two gorgeous women as his former/current roommate shouted encouragement and criticisms. Sometimes, Chuck couldn't believe the trajectory his life had taken.

At first, especially when he was still healing, he crawled into bed every night sore and exhausted. Over time, though, he began to hold his own, understanding how to maximize leverage and use his opponents' momentum and strategies against them. His body began to change also, shifting from that of a reasonably fit desktop warrior to someone who actually had muscles with definition. When he looked in the mirror, he sometimes had a hard time recognizing the guy looking back.

He definitely felt like less of a liability, which might've been Bryce's plan—and especially now, when he'd left the safe house for the first time in months, being able to defend himself really mattered. He was thrilled to be outside, too. Even if all he got to do was 'stay in the car' on a stakeout for Zondra's protection, along for the ride in case he flashed, he didn't mind one bit. Or at least he wouldn't, if he was sure Bryce wasn't going to spontaneously combust.

Glancing away from the screen, on which—since there were no other customers in line—Zondra and Mason continued to flirt, Chuck watched a guy with a lumberjack beard walk a tiny brown poodle across the street, bending to pluck a daisy and tuck it into the poodle's pink-and-white collar. God, humans were weird—and he was so glad to be among them once again. Torn between sympathy for his friend and relief at being out of the house, he did his best to suppress the look of happiness that was doing its best to spread across his face. It wouldn't be fair—not when Bryce looked so miserable.

"So," Mason said, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, "have any big plans this evening?"

"I have to work until two today." Zondra reached under the counter to restock the to-go cups, her voice nonchalant. "Other than that, I'm embarrassed to say I don't have anything on the books. How about you?"

He took a slug of his coffee. "I'm equally pathetic. How about we be pathetic together?"

Zondra burst out laughing, and Chuck knew her well enough to know it was genuine. "I think that may be the worst invitation I've ever received."

"It was pretty bad, huh?" Mason dropped his eyes, managing to look abashed. "Let me make it up to you. There's a restaurant that just opened—a little bistro, farm-to-table, with a fantastic outdoor space. My buddy's the chef. Care to join me? The wine list is amazing and the tiramisu's even better. There's live music … a guitarist that just got a record deal, so we'd be seeing him before he makes it big. It'll be the least pathetic evening you can imagine."

Zondra's hands found her hips. "That sounds too good to be true."

"If it is pathetic," Mason said, that crooked grin tugging at the corner of his lips again, "that'll just give me incentive to do better next time. What do you say?"

"Well—" Zondra hedged.

"Here." He grabbed a napkin and scrawled something on it. "This is my number. You don't have to decide right now. Just call me after your shift and let me know."

She took the napkin, sliding it into the pocket of her apron. "Thanks, but I don't need to call you."

"Did I mention the wine list?" He rocked back on his heels. "And if tiramisu's not your thing, you should try the Nutella cheesecake. You don't even have to talk to me. You can just eat the cheesecake and express your appreciation in my general direction."

The bell over the door to the coffee shop dinged as it opened and the man with the poodle walked in, the little dog tucked under his arm. Seeing him, Mason stepped aside, turning to go. "Just think about it," he called over his shoulder. "No pressure."

"Like I said, I don't need to," Zondra said. "You had me at 'farm-to-table.' Here."

She reached into her pocket and pulled out her cell phone, punching in the digits from the napkin. A moment later, Mason's phone chimed.

"That's my number," she said unnecessarily as the guy with the poodle walked up to the counter, pausing at the bakery case to peruse the multitude of goodies inside. "Text me and we'll work out the details."

The rest of their conversation was lost as Bryce let out a growl loud enough to shake the interior of the van. "'Farm-to-table,'" he muttered, sounding disgusted. "It's not enough this guy's brilliant and cut—he has to be a foodie, too? The universe hates me."

"It doesn't hate you. No one hates you." Chuck did his best to sound reassuring. "This is just a mission."

"Yeah, yeah. The mission. Can we just talk about something else? Anything. Like your web crawlers … get any hits yet?" Bryce said, in a pitiful attempt to distract himself from his obsessive line of thought. Unfortunately, all he'd done was bring the conversation around to Chuck's own obsession.

It was kismet how the Three Kings revelation had come to him. Staring at the screen as he scrolled through the last of Fulcrum's intel months ago, Chuck had had a sudden memory of how he and his dad used to look at the constellations together. They'd stand out on the back porch in the dark, his dad's hand enveloping Chuck's smaller one, guiding Chuck from one group of stars to the next.

"That's Ursa Major," his dad had said. "The Great Bear. And there's the Dog Star, Sirius … the brightest star in the sky. And right there … that's Orion, the hunter. See there? That's his belt. They also call it the Three Kings."

"The Three Kings?" Chuck had said, peering up at the sky. "Why?"

"Because of those three bright stars—Mintaka, Alnitak, and Alnilam. Legend has it that those stars represent the three Magi in the Christmas story. There's a variant of the carol 'The Quest of the Magi' that goes: 'We three kings of Orion are, bearing gifts we traverse afar, fields and fountains, moors and mountains, following yonder star.'" His dad had put his arm around Chuck's shoulder. "Look for those stars, Charles, and you'll always be able to find the hunter."

Chuck had repeated the stars' names to himself—_Mintaka, Alnitak, Alnilam_—thinking that they sounded like something out of Star Trek or Star Wars. He'd never forgotten them, or the idea that they were royalty. And sitting on the couch in the safe house with his arm in a sling, Bryce, Sarah, and Zondra all staring at him, the memory had come rushing back.

"Orion," he'd said, with an unmistakable sense of certainty. "That's who the Three Kings are. Orion, the Hunter."

Bryce's mouth had fallen open. Chuck was sure he was thinking of Project Omaha—the Intersect's brainchild—and the moment at Stanford when everything had gone so badly askew. _Get Chuck off Professor Fleming's radar, _Orion had ordered, compelling Bryce to do the unthinkable. The guy had been a talented computer scientist, according to Casey's files, and he had some kind of vested interest in Chuck. It had to be the same person that Fulcrum was trying to chase down. In this case at least, the hunter had become the hunted.

"Orion?" Zondra'd said, incredulity in her voice. "We heard rumors about him out at the Farm. Said he was a techno wizard of some sort—some kind of digital Houdini. If that's who Fulcrum's looking for, it all fits."

"Holy crap." Chuck had settled back against his pillows. "We've got to find him before Fulcrum does. If we do—maybe he can help me get this thing out of my head. God knows what'll happen if they get hold of him first."

And so he'd spent days creating an automated search algorithm to scrape the web for any traces of Orion. Every day, he checked the results … but so far, no dice.

"I haven't found anything yet," he said to Bryce now, watching the lumberjack bestow a kiss on the poodle's head. "But I'm not giving up."

Bryce's eyes were fixed on the door to the coffee shop. It swung open, as it always did at 8:45 on weekdays, and Troy Mason strolled out, dark hair tousled and messenger bag slung across his chest, looking pleased with the world.

"Of course you're not," Bryce said, his gaze shifting to the monitor screen as Zondra took Paul Bunyan and his pooch's order. "And neither am I."

OoOoOoOoO

Downshifting, the Porsche's motor whining, Sarah made the final turn that wound its way towards her destination—the safe house, and Chuck. She'd put the car's top down, and the bay breeze whipped through her hair, freeing her mind as well as her spirit.

It had been a long day, but a fruitful one. She'd spent that afternoon with Monica Whittaker, chatting for hours over herbal tea and cheese fondue. Whittaker turned out to be smart, savvy, and resilient—just Sarah's type. As a former Air Force intelligence officer, she was easy to get along with—their conversation flowed with familiarity and kinship. Not that they were friends, or anything … but it was nice to have her protective detail duties be for someone she enjoyed spending time with. She just prayed that Page loved Whittaker as much as she'd let on; it was clear she was crazy about him. The woman had tried to keep their conversation professional, but when she talked about Page, Sarah could tell she had a hard time suppressing her enthusiasm.

Sarah couldn't blame her. When she thought about Chuck, it was all she could do to stop a stupid, lovesick smile from spreading across her face. They'd basically been living together for the past three months, and Sarah had worried that would be a disaster—that they'd hit a roadblock before they'd really gotten going—but that hadn't proved to be the case. In fact, the opposite was true. She looked forward to coming home to him every day and seeing his face light up as she slid onto the couch next to him, glass of wine in hand. Sharing what she'd been up to and hearing the ins and outs of his search for Orion was the highlight of her day—or maybe that title was reserved for the moment that she slipped into bed next to him and he wrapped his arms around her, the big spoon to her little one.

And it was _arms _now. His shoulder was completely healed, and Bryce had initiated a self-defense regimen as part of his recovery that had done more than just get Chuck back to where he'd been before the gunshot—it had created a new and improved version of the nerd she'd fallen in love with. He had muscles in places they'd never been before, and watching him spar with Zondra, she realized just how far he'd come. It was impressive—and sexy.

The diligence and innovation that characterized his pursuit for Orion was sexy too. She loved watching Chuck's mind work, although she was disappointed for him that his search hadn't yielded results. Still, she knew Chuck well enough—and had enough faith in him—to know it was just a matter of time until he found what he was after. Listening to the passion in his voice as he described the bots he'd created and how they crawled the web every day, looking for traces of the enigmatic figure who might be able to pluck the Intersect from his brain, Sarah felt herself fall a little bit more in love with every passing moment. As fruitful as today had been, she'd missed Chuck and couldn't wait to see him.

She pulled the Porsche into a spot in front of the safe house and got out of the car, already anticipating what she'd tell Chuck about Whittaker—right after she kissed him silly. But when she swung the door open, her dreams of a romantic interlude evaporated. Bryce and Zondra were standing in the living room, and they were arguing … loudly enough that there was no way to ignore them. Chuck stood between them, apparently trying to mediate.

"I just have a bad feeling about the guy," Bryce was saying, with the exaggerated sort of patience that made Sarah suspect this wasn't the first time he'd voiced his concerns. "Something's off about him, Zondra. I don't trust him and I don't think you should go."

Zondra glared at him. "This is bullshit. You're just jealous, Bryce. I'm a professional and I know how to do my job. Back off."

He didn't give an inch. "I know you're a professional, for Christ's sake. No one is accusing you of anything or devaluing your ability to follow through on the mission. Just listen to me, would you? My gut says this is a mistake."

"Oh, and you think I should listen to your _gut_?" Zondra tossed her hair. "Is it some kind of gastrointestinal Tarot deck? Do you have a little fortune-teller in there with a pack of cards, or maybe a Magic 8 Ball? Or are you letting your personal feelings get in the way of what has to happen here, just because you don't want me to go on a date with anyone but you?"

"Now wait just a—"

Her voice rose. "I'm not your personal property. I don't belong to you, or anyone but myself. If you can't show me the respect of allowing me to do my job, then do us both a favor and leave me the hell alone."

Color rose in Bryce's cheeks, and he folded his arms across his chest. "I do respect you!"

"You obviously don't. Now get out of my way. I have to get dressed."

He ran a hand through his hair. "Please just listen to me. We can figure something else out. I'm telling you, I have a bad feeling about where this is headed. Don't go."

"Don't you tell me what to—"

"Hey, hey, hey," Chuck said, taking a tentative step toward Zondra. "Let's all just calm down and then maybe we can—"

She turned a wild-eyed glance in his direction, simmering like a pot on the boil. "And you! Don't you tell me to calm down. Do you have any idea how insulting it is? I would've expected better from you!"

Chuck's mouth fell open in shock. He was still searching for the right words to say when Sarah grabbed Zondra by the arm. Z's eyes widened, but Sarah didn't give her a chance to speak. Instead, she dragged her friend down the hall to Zondra's bedroom and shut the door.

Z sank onto the bed, looking pissed. "Can you believe him, Sarah?"

"Which 'him'?" She opened Zondra's closet, rifling through it for the perfect first-date dress. "You were pretty mad at both of them."

Zondra waved a dismissive hand. "Oh, Chuck's just playing peacemaker, trying to make things better. That's who he is. He can't help it. But Bryce—all that caveman 'I don't want you going out with him' crap. Who does he think he is, my keeper?"

Bypassing one dress as too formal and another as too drop-dead-sexy, Sarah took her time, choosing her words carefully before she spoke. "I don't think he's trying to be an ass, Z. I really don't. I've worked with the guy for years. Make fun of his gut instincts if you want, but he's usually dead on. If he says the guy's dirty, I wouldn't be so quick to let it go."

Zondra made a low, dissentient noise. "You can't deny that Bryce is letting his personal feelings get in the way of this mission."

"I wouldn't try to deny that. He's into you, that much is obvious. He said so outright, and there's a thousand other signs. The way he looks at you—the way he's teaching himself to cook, for God's sake. It hasn't been easy for him, watching you get close to Mason. It's tearing him up, Z. You have to see that."

Zondra hurled a pillow onto the floor. "I'm just doing my job!"

"Sure. But that doesn't mean it isn't hurting him." She pulled a classic little black dress out of the closet and held it up, considering. "Both things can be true at the same time, you know. He can hate watching you with Mason and also be justified in feeling like something's not right. I know it isn't easy, but don't just dismiss what he's saying out of hand because you think he's gone all protective-alpha on you or whatever. At least consider it."

Her lips a thin line, Zondra shook her head. "I'm going on this date, Blondie. I have to. I've been working toward it for weeks."

"But?" Sarah prompted.

For the first time since Sarah had walked through the door, she saw her friend smile. "How did you know there was a 'but'?"

"I've known you for years. Come on, girl. Spill."

"Fine." Zondra shrugged. "I feel guilty, okay? When I told you I still loved Bryce, that day at the Saville, I wasn't lying. I did love him. Or—I do. Or—I don't know." She bit her lip, looking uncharacteristically indecisive. "I guess I felt like I shouldn't love him, because he'd been so awful to me. Like the guild would revoke my feminist card if I did. And also, after Chuck sacrificed himself to save me, I realized that was what true love looked like—someone who would do anything for me, no matter what it cost him. I was pretty sure Bryce wouldn't throw himself in front of a passing butterfly, let alone a speeding bullet, to save my life. And I wanted the speeding bullet kind of love. I didn't want to settle for anything less."

"And now?"

"Now," Zondra said, weighing each word, "I don't know what to think. I don't know this new version of Bryce Larkin. It's like being around a different person. I only know I don't want to hurt him, and he's making it impossible to do anything else. And Chuck—he saw me flirting with this bastard Lon Kirk on a mission back in Burbank. I didn't want to; I thought I had to. The guy was disgusting, and I let him put his hands on me. Chuck's face—he was so disappointed. I feel like I'm letting everyone down."

"You're not letting anyone down, Z. Don't worry about that for a second." Sarah's voice was fierce. "Bryce will adjust. He'll have to. And Chuck respects the hell out of you. As for me, all I ask is that you watch your back tonight. No matter what else you think of him, Bryce's instincts are solid. Watch your back, and know that I'm there for you. I'll always have your six."

Her eyes welling with tears, Zondra nodded. "Any other sage words of advice?"

"Sure." Sarah held up the dress, lightening the moment. "Wear your LBD. It's perfect."

Twenty minutes later, Zondra was outfitted in the little black dress and three-inch heels. She'd put on smoky eyeliner and nude lipstick, and Sarah had done her hair, curling it so that it fell to mid-back in an ebb and flow of dark brown waves. Z looked in the mirror, giving herself a tacit nod of approval.

"It'll do."

"Are you kidding? Troy Mason will end up spilling his guts. Come on, time to go."

Sarah followed Zondra out into the living room, and had the perfect view of seeing Bryce's jaw drop when he caught sight of her. He turned away, wanting to hide his reaction, but it was too late. God, he was so hung up on her. Sarah just hoped they didn't wind up breaking each other's hearts.

"You look nice," Bryce said to Zondra at last, sounding shy.

Zondra looked at the floor, the loveseat, the ceiling—anywhere but at him. "Thanks," she managed eventually. Sarah felt sorry for the pair of them.

"Let's go." She twirled the key to the surveillance van on her finger. She, Chuck, and Bryce would be riding together. They'd follow Zondra to the restaurant and wait at a safe distance. "Nutella cheesecake waits for no man—or woman."

"Mmmm, Nutella cheesecake. Sounds amazing." Chuck draped an arm over Sarah's shoulders. "Do me a favor, Z—save me a piece? With all the calories I'm burning on the mat, I've earned it."

Zondra shot him a smile, and Sarah knew she intended it as a peace offering. "I'll do my best."

The four of them headed out the door. Chuck, Sarah, and Bryce climbed into the surveillance van, and Zondra got into her Jeep—no easy feat in three-inch heels.

"I don't like this," Bryce said again as Sarah started the engine, but he didn't sound possessive, the way Zondra had accused him of being—he sounded worried and forlorn.

"I know you don't. And I trust your instincts." Sarah reached behind her to squeeze his knee. "If you say something's not right, it probably isn't, Bryce. But Zondra's good at what she does, and we're here for backup. Everything's going to be fine."

Bryce mumbled something under his breath. Sarah couldn't be sure, but she thought it sounded like "Famous last words."

She pulled out behind Zondra, trying—and failing—to shake the feeling of dread that roiled in her stomach. And when Chuck squeezed the fingers of her free hand, offering reassurance, for once it did nothing to help.

She'd just gotten Zondra back. She didn't want to lose her again.

"It'll be fine," she repeated, more to herself than for anyone else's benefit, and hoped like hell it was true.

OoOoOoOoO

The twenty-minute drive to Refinery77, Mason's friend's Russian Hill bistro, went quickly. Zondra's mind was partially on the 'date' to come, and partially on Bryce … how sweet he'd been over the past three months, and how jealous he'd been tonight. That possessive attitude of his didn't fly with her. It wouldn't, even if they didn't have such a screwed-up history. How could she ever be with someone who wouldn't allow her to do her job—who didn't trust her enough to take care of herself?

Then again, she trusted Walker—and Walker trusted Bryce. Was it possible that he was reacting so strongly because he really did sense something off about Mason, and was just trying to look out for her? Was Zondra so scalded by their history that she couldn't give him the benefit of the doubt? If Walker had come to her with the same fears about Mason's motivations, would Zondra have believed her—or would she have blown up at her the way she did with Bryce? Maybe she was guilty of the very thing she'd accused Bryce of doing … allowing their past history to blind her.

She worried over this conundrum all the way to Refinery77, where she magically found a spot just half a block from the restaurant. The van had pulled over a block away, close enough to be available in the event of trouble, but sufficiently far away that it wouldn't be noticed. Turning off the car, she dropped her keys into her clutch, checked her lipstick, and strolled down Mason Street—irony or ego?—toward Union.

Refinery77 was halfway between Mason and August Alley, a sleek, wood-framed hole in the wall with a bright red door and twinkling lights that framed huge windows. Zondra stood outside for a moment, letting the scent of perfectly-charred beef and mushrooms sautéed in butter fill her lungs. For a moment, she let herself look forward to the evening—if for no other reason than she'd likely get to savor the best meal she'd had in months. Then the doubt crept in, a drop of dark ink swirled in clear water. She and Mason had never discussed her love of good food, beyond her recommendations for the delectable white-chocolate scone at Café Santana that he stubbornly refused to try. As far as he knew, she was a barista who'd mastered the art of the perfect latte and the snarky comeback. Was he trying to impress her? Or was this a slip on his part, because he was actually a Fulcrum agent who'd done some digging into her past, discovered the cooking classes she'd taken, and was leveraging the information to make her a Nutella cheesecake-flavored offer she couldn't refuse?

That was ridiculous. She was letting Bryce get to her. Beyond his "gut feeling," they had no evidence that Mason was anything other than what he appeared to be—a fearsomely intelligent cryptographer with a fitness obsession and an addiction to blueberry scones.

Still, the ink swirled, darkening her mood. Determined to cheer herself up, she yanked open the door to the bistro, tested her comms to make sure they worked—Chuck's "Good luck, Z" and Bryce's "Be careful" ringing in her ears—and stalked inside.

Mason was lounging against the hostess stand, deep in conversation, wearing a pair of slim black pants, a button-down white shirt, and a charcoal suit jacket the exact color of his eyes. He straightened up when he saw Zondra and smiled, the hostess forgotten.

"You look beautiful," he said. "I mean, I thought you were gorgeous in an apron, but this definitely puts that outfit to shame. I'll be the envy of every guy in here tonight."

Bryce snorted, and Zondra felt herself blushing. "You'll turn a girl's head, talking like that."

"You think I'm turning your head? Wait until you try the scallops with butternut squash caponata. You haven't lived until you've had those—paired with the Alsace Pinot Gris, of course." He held out his arm. "Shall we?"

Suppressing the unladylike urge to drool—scallops were one of her favorites—Zondra looped her arm through his. She felt the tiniest bit foolish … was he being cheesy, or mocking the formality of his own gesture? If it was the former, she was glad this date wasn't the real thing—but if it was the latter, well, she was liking Mason a little more with every passing second.

They followed the black-clad hostess through the restaurant to the outdoor courtyard. Refinery77's interior had been nice enough—low lighting, the pleasant hum of conversation, candles burning on every table—but when they reached the courtyard, Zondra sucked in her breath. It was gorgeous. A tree grew through the center of it, hung with fairy lights and an assortment of hand-carved wind chimes that clinked together in the evening breeze. The wrought-iron fence that surrounded the candlelit tables was hung with overflowing flowerpots, a profusion of blues and purples spilling over the sides and filling the air with fragrance. In the corners, flanked by torches, were exquisite abstract sculptures. There was a small stage where she guessed the musicians would be setting up later, and tables scattered throughout the space, set on a foundation of cobblestones and mosaic-studded concrete pavers. Other than Zondra and Mason, the courtyard was completely empty.

"Your table," the hostess said, gesturing them to seats beneath the tree. "Here's the wine list and your menus. Your server will be out in just a moment."

Zondra slid into her seat, feeling awed—and a little suspicious. "Where is everyone else?"

The candlelight flickered across Mason's features as he smiled. "It pays to know the chef."

She smirked at him. "I've known a few chefs in my time. Doesn't matter who you know—unless you pay them a pretty penny, they're not giving up the best seats in the house just because you're their buddy. What gives?"

"I have no idea." Mason shrugged, draping his suit jacket over the back of the chair. "Maybe it's too early, and folks are waiting for the guitarist to get here. Or maybe I just got lucky. There are worse things than enjoying an incredible ambiance, alone with a beautiful woman."

Bryce's words nagged at her—_Something's off about him, Zondra. _Flipping open the wine list, she shoved his voice away, but it refused to go—maybe because she could hear his groan of irritation loud and clear through her earwig.

"Seriously?" Bryce said. "Would he like some Velveeta to go with his Alsace Pinot Gris, or would that be too low-class for Mr. Sophistication?"

Damn Bryce, anyway. He didn't belong here. Zondra intended to savor each bite of her scallops, drink every bit of her wine, and devour the Nutella cheesecake—to hell with the calories.

"Are there really seared scallops?" she asked Mason.

"There are. And they're the best." He grabbed the menu and opened it up so she could see. "Butternut squash and all. If you like scallops, you won't be sorry."

She gave him her biggest, brightest smile. "I love scallops. And I'd love a glass of the Alsace Pinot Gris," she said as the waiter came up to the table. He was exactly the kind of guy she'd expect to see waiting tables in a place like this—a perfectly trimmed goatee, hair up in a man-bun, and a diamond stud in one earlobe.

"You heard the lady," Mason said, leaning back in his chair. "Two glasses of the Alsace, please. I believe she'd like the scallops—unless you've changed your mind? I mean, you might actually like to look at the menu. Everything here's incredible. You can't go wrong."

"I'm feeling pretty good about the scallops."

"Scallops it is, then." He scanned the menu. "Is the almond-crusted salmon as good as it sounds?"

"It's fabulous," the waiter said, his teeth a brief flash of white in his dark beard.

"Then the salmon it is." Mason shot her a conspiratorial look. "I might be persuaded to share—if you're willing to part with a scallop."

"That could be arranged," Zondra said, tucking a wavy strand of hair behind her ear. The guy was cute, she'd give him that. And he had excellent taste in dining establishments. She was sure _he _didn't burn his eggs unless properly supervised.

The waiter nodded. "I'm Van—I'll be your server tonight. If you need anything, just let me know. I'll be right back with your wine."

Mason was right—the Alsace was delicious. As Zondra sipped, the smoky flavor of the wine lingering on her tongue, she thought that whatever happened tonight, she'd have to remember this vintage. It was well worth the price of admission.

"So, Troy," she said, eyeing him over the rim of her glass, "tell me more about your job. What are you working on right now?"

He gave her a self-deprecating eye roll. "Ah, the usual grind. I teach—you know that. Quantum computing—sounds a lot cooler than it is."

"I highly doubt that. I'm not much of a techie, but I'd love to learn more. What exactly do you study?"

Mason folded his hands on the tabletop. "Do you really want to know?"

"I wouldn't ask if I didn't," she said, giving him the full benefit of her gaze.

"Okay, then, but remember, you asked for it. If you fall asleep before our entrees arrive, don't blame me." And he was off and running, telling her about the intricacies of his work. Zondra listened with half an ear, paying attention to anything she could use. So far, there was a whole lot of nothing … but like anyone else who loved what they did, he was infinitely happy to talk about it.

He wound down just as Zondra was buttering the last piece of focaccia in the bread basket. "God, you must be bored to death. I'm so sorry. Sometimes when I talk about work, I just get carried away. I'm not always like this, I promise."

"I asked for it, remember?" She leaned forward, letting the candlelight play across her face. "And I learned a lot. This is pretty heavy stuff for a girl who spends most of her time making lattes."

"Picasso-quality lattes, Elena. Don't sell yourself short." He raised his own glass, considering. "What about you? Are you happy where you are? Or do you have bigger plans?"

She shrugged. "I like the coffee shop, for now. It gives me a chance to meet people, and the freedom to do whatever I want in the evenings. It's not forever. Maybe one day I'll get sick of it and move on. But there's something satisfying about giving people what they need to start their day off perfectly. I like the camaraderie of it, the connections. I mean, without it, I wouldn't be here, with you."

"And what a crime that would be," he said, his voice soft. "Ah—our entrees. Tell me if the scallops live up to the hype."

The waiter set their dishes on the table and stepped away, heading back inside. A couple passed him, on their way out to the courtyard, but the hostess seated them far away from Mason and Zondra, at their cozy table under the tree.

She impaled one of the scallops on her fork, dredging it in a bit of squash, and lifted it to her lips. The moment she took her first bite, she knew Mason hadn't steered her wrong. The outside was crispy, the inside melt-in-your-mouth delicious. The squash formed the perfect sweet counterpoint to the briny taste of the scallops. She closed her eyes, listening to the wind chimes, savoring the taste.

When she opened them again, Mason was eyeing her with undisguised appreciation. "So," he said, the edges of his mouth curling upward, "did it pass muster?"

"Oh, God." She swallowed, hand pressed to her heart. "It's amazing. I take it back. I don't know if I'm willing to share after all."

"That's too bad. I was about to tell you all about the incredible Fourth of July bash my buddy Jeff has planned. If you think his scallops are good, you should try his pineapple-and-shrimp skewers with spiced mango salsa. But those bashes are invitation only. And I'm not sure I want to extend an invite to a girl who hoards all the scallops for herself." He raised his eyebrows, fork poised above his salmon.

Zondra gave an exaggerated sigh—but still managed to take advantage of this opportunity to suss out Mason's loyalty. It had practically been handed to her, after all. "You're a true patriot, I see. Only in it for the food."

"Oh, I love my country. But I love Jeff's shrimp skewers even more. They're good enough to bring our forefathers back to life." He mimicked her sigh, a wicked grin lifting his lips.

"Fine, I give." She curved a protective hand around her plate. "You can have one scallop. _One. _They're too good to part with any more."

There was a muffled noise over the comms, like a stifled gasp. Then Chuck said, "What the hell!"

"What's happening, Chuck?" Anxiety colored Sarah's voice.

Zondra's heart picked up speed. Something was obviously wrong—but she trusted her team. Her job was here … no matter how worried she might be about what was happening in the van. Swallowing her unease, she forced herself to focus on Mason—who was still eyeing her entrée with single-minded avidity.

"One it is," he agreed, snaking a scallop and depositing it on his own dish. "And as promised, here's a bite of my salmon."

"I don't know," Chuck said, sounding as anxious as Sarah. "I'm not doing anything. Look! This is totally bizarre."

Zondra shifted in her seat, about to excuse herself to the restroom. Whatever was going on, she needed to know about it. Unfortunately, Mason chose that moment to extend his fork to her, a piece of salmon speared on the end—just as the waiter approached again, doubtless to see if everything was all right. Honestly, Zondra wasn't sure what to tell him. Did Mason really expect her to nibble the salmon off his fork, like some kind of baby bird being fed by mama? Maybe Bryce's Spidey sense wasn't going off because the dude had anything evil in mind—maybe Mason was just plain _weird.  
_

Well, he hadn't had anything to eat yet, after all. His fork hadn't touched anything but her scallops. Eating the salmon wouldn't be gross … just peculiar. And if she refused, it would be awkward, right?

Suppressing her aggravation, she leaned forward to take a bite—and felt a needle slide into her bicep. Glancing up in shock, she saw the waiter—Van, he'd said his name was—standing above her. His eyes were flat and shark-like, his mouth a hard seam in the thicket of his beard.

"If it's not you, then who's typing?" Bryce said, a moment too late—and then his voice took on a tinge of panic Zondra had never heard in it before. "Oh, shit. Zondra … get out of there!"

She would have loved to do nothing more. But when she tried to comply, she was horrified to realize that she couldn't move. With a supreme effort of will, she managed to lift her hand—but it flopped back to the tabletop, slack and useless.

"Oh dear," Van said, pulling the needle free and slipping it into the pocket of his apron. "You really shouldn't have had so much wine. It can make one positively … stuporous."

Zondra's eyes slid to Mason, who was watching her with a look that hovered somewhere between eagerness and resignation. "I'm disappointed in you, Agent Rizzo. That was far too easy for an agent of your caliber. A little wine, a few seared scallops, and all your training went out the window. What is the CIA teaching people these days?"

Over the comms, Bryce was yelling her name. She opened her mouth to scream, tried to rise from the table to fight, but her muscles wouldn't cooperate, and all that came out was a hoarse croak. "What … did you give me?"

"Oh, not to worry. It's a derivative of pancuronium bromide—a special cocktail of ours. It won't kill you, just paralyze you long enough for us to get you where we want you without your claws coming out." Mason leaned across the table, spearing another one of her scallops. "You were wrong, I see. There are plenty of these to go around after all."

Zondra struggled to reach her purse, but her hand refused to obey. God, Bryce had been right after all. He'd been right about everything, and she'd accused him and ignored him. She should have been kinder to him, she should have listened—

As if she'd summoned him, his voice came over the comms, harsh and desperate. "Goddamn it. We're going in there. Zondra, we're coming. Just hold on."

She tried to open her mouth to reply, but her lips wouldn't cooperate. Panic surged within her. How long until this stuff spread to her lungs, her heart? What if she died here?

Her eyes darted from side to side, the only muscles still under her command. Her pulse leapt and stuttered. This was like being buried alive.

"Are you frightened? Don't be." Mason's voice was a purr. "Here, we've got you."

Coming around to her side of the table, he hooked one of her arms over his shoulder. Van took the other, and they hoisted her to her feet. Together, they carried her through the courtyard and out into the street.

"Excuse us," Mason murmured to a couple who eyed the trio with alarm. "Nothing to worry about. She just had a bit too much to drink."

Zondra hung limp, the night air cool on her cheeks. Her hair blew into her eyes, but she had no ability to brush it away. Her head rocked to the side and she saw Bryce leaping from the surveillance van down the block, saw him running toward her, cover be damned. But it was too late. Mason and Van ushered her into a waiting car, and she slumped against the window, helpless, as it sped away.

* * *

A/N: One more chapter remains in this arc, with another arc left in what we're calling 'Season 1.5.' As we head toward Season 2, you'll begin to encounter some familiar names and faces—but rest assured that our AU theme will undergird the balance of the story.

A/N #2: We love reading your reviews—they mean a lot to us and influence the decisions we make as we craft our story. Please review, follow, and 'favorite' us if you are so inclined.

As always, thanks for reading.


	21. The Cadmean Victory

Chapter Twenty-One … in which Bryce shows his true colors, Zondra swallows her pride, Sarah takes a leap of faith, and Chuck bravely goes where no Chuck has gone before.

This chapter completes the Three Kings arc. Only one arc remains in season 1.5: Sarah vs the DNI. After that, we'll begin our foray into Season 2. May the Force be with us.

Disclaimer: We don't own Chuck…

* * *

**Chapter 21: ****The Cadmean Victory  
**

Being confined to the back of a sweltering, unventilated panel van was not at the top of Chuck's to-do list, long-term or short. Like sardines trapped in canned jelly, he, Sarah, and Bryce were hemmed in, covered with sweat—held captive by the luminous glow of the surveillance van's video feed. The night hadn't gone exactly how Chuck had planned, and nothing about his surroundings suggested it was about to improve.

Sarah'd been gone all day. Her protective detail with Jackson and Whittaker had eaten up most of her time lately, and Chuck had missed seeing her angelic, beautiful smile he'd come to depend on, as if it was some kind of daily elixir. He'd been looking forward to spending a little alone time with her when she got home … at least until they all had to head out again on surveillance duty for Zondra's pseudo-date with Mason. But that idea had imploded as soon as Zondra and Bryce started bickering like they'd been transported back to junior high. All of Bryce's pent-up frustration from earlier in the day—after Mason had asked Zondra out on said date—had come boiling over, and Zondra had responded with equal ire. Chuck'd been worried they might start slugging it out before Sarah intervened, dragging Zondra off to prep for tonight's mission.

While Sarah'd helped Zondra get ready, Bryce had paced the living room, arms folded across his chest, looking more agitated with every passing second. To give him credit, Chuck didn't believe he was the jealous, sanctimonious ass Zondra accused him of being. Something about Mason had rubbed Bryce the wrong way, but Zondra was so aggravated by what she perceived as possessive macho bullshit, she wouldn't give any of his concerns a second thought. Now Bryce had worked himself into what Chuck could only describe as a tizzy. He'd run his hands through his hair so many times, it looked like Edward Scissorhands was his stylist, and prior to their final test of the comm systems, he'd kept up a steady, disgruntled patter under his breath. Chuck couldn't make out most of what he was saying, but he did catch the occasional phrase, like "horrible idea," "don't trust him," and "up to something." Now that Zondra was actually _with_ Mason, Bryce had—for the most part—curbed his asides, but he bristled with nervous energy, making it difficult for Chuck to concentrate on what was going on in the restaurant's courtyard.

So there they sat, in the back of the van, keeping their eyes and ears on Zondra's 'date' with Mason … but Chuck could still feel the apprehension rolling off Bryce in waves, like a definitive disturbance in the Force. The guy's drumming fingers and jiggling knees didn't help; they were a constant distraction, thrumming away in Chuck's peripheral vision.

Since Zondra's safety was at stake, Chuck forced his attention back to the screen with Herculean effort. They had a decent view of Refinery77's outdoor patio, thanks to the fact that he'd hacked the restaurant's security cameras. The tree in the middle of the courtyard posed a problem—it might create great ambiance, but it played havoc with getting a clear line of sight from certain angles.

Mason sat with his back to the camera, which was less than ideal. They did have an unobstructed view of Zondra's face—enough, at least, to pick up on any cues she might send their way. She and Mason were the only ones in the courtyard, which set Bryce to muttering again … and this time, Chuck could understand why. In the absence of other restaurant patrons' prying eyes, it was the perfect setup to stage an ambush … although right now, all Mason seemed to be trying to get away with was selecting the perfect scallops/wine pairing.

When the waiter came to take their order, his face was also obscured by the inconvenient tree. Nothing seemed amiss, though—Mason and Zondra ordered drinks and entrees; Zondra asked leading questions about his work; and the faceless waiter brought their food. Apparently, Zondra's dish lived up to the hype, because she guarded it like a ravenous creature as Mason tried to wheedle his way into getting a bite.

"Fine, I give," she said, rolling her eyes at Mason. "You can have one scallop. _One. _They're too good to part with any more."

Chuck sighed, cracking his knuckles. He was glad that Bryce had—thus far, anyway—been wrong about Mason's malicious intent, but sitting hunched over in the van for the second time that day was killing his lower back. With any luck, Zondra would get the information she needed, snag that second piece of Nutella cheesecake, and they'd all get to go home sooner rather than later.

As if he'd cursed himself, his computer screen suddenly cut out. They still had audio of the courtyard, but the video feed was gone.

"What the hell?" Chuck straightened and stared at the screen. He checked the power supply; everything looked normal. Surely his equipment hadn't chosen this very moment to go haywire. Bryce might start foaming at the mouth if they couldn't keep their eyes on Zondra.

"What's happening, Chuck?" Sarah said, sounding as distressed as he felt.

Bryce's leg started to jiggle again, the way it always did when he was anxious. He leaned forward, every muscle in his body taut.

"One it is," Mason continued cheerily. "And as promised, here's a bite of my salmon." Well, at least he was still narrating what was happening in the courtyard; that was helpful, all things considered.

Chuck stabbed the Ctrl+Alt+Del keys, an action that yielded zero results. "I don't know," he said to Sarah. "I can't do anything. It's just frozen."

Then, in capital, neon-green letters—a single word scrolled across the screen.

CHARLES …

"Look," Chuck said unnecessarily, since all three of them were riveted to the screen. "This is totally bizarre."

"If it's not you, then who's typing?" Bryce's voice was low, dangerous. His leg jiggled in triple-time.

The screen went blank. Then another message appeared.

GET AGENT RIZZO AWAY FROM TROY MASON. SHE'S IN GRAVE DANGER.

The words vanished, replaced by an image of Mason. Juliette Reeves sat on his lap, an arm slung around his neck, kissing his cheek.

"Oh, shit." Bryce leapt to his feet, barely avoiding a collision with the top of the van. "Zondra … get out of there!"

The waiter said something, but he must've been too far away from Zondra for the mic to pick it up clearly. Whatever it was, his tone sounded ominous.

Once more, the screen faded to black. Then the video feed returned, showing the waiter's face clearly as he leaned over Zondra, whispering in her ear.

As soon as Chuck got a full-on view of the waiter's face … he flashed. The guy was ex-CIA, obviously rogue, and in cahoots with Mason. Which meant that Bryce'd been right all along—Zondra was in terrible trouble.

Bryce was shaking Chuck's arm, trying to get his attention. "Did you flash? What is it? What did you see?"

"He's ex-CIA," Chuck managed, pointing at the screen. "Rogue. Whoever hijacked our system's right—we've got to get Zondra out of there."

"I'm disappointed in you, Agent Rizzo," Mason said, his voice syrupy-sweet. "That was far too easy for an agent of your caliber. A little wine, a few seared scallops, and all your training went out the window. What is the CIA teaching people these days?"

"Zondra!" Bryce was yelling now, on the verge of leaping from the van.

Zondra's head lolled as she struggled to keep her eyes open. Her body sagged in the chair. "What … did you give me?"

"Oh, not to worry. It's a derivative of pancuronium bromide—a special cocktail of ours. It won't kill you, just paralyze you long enough for us to get you where we want you without your claws coming out." Mason reached over, spearing another scallop. "You were wrong, I see. There are plenty of these to go around after all."

"Goddamn it. We're going in there." Bryce grabbed his gun. "Zondra, we're coming. Just hold on."

"Are you frightened? Don't be." Mason stood, coming around to Zondra's side of the table. "Here … we've got you."

He grabbed one of her arms; the waiter took the other. Draping her arms over their shoulders, they carried her out of the courtyard and into the street. The video feed was useless, focused as it was on the empty courtyard, but now Chuck could see Zondra from their vantage point, a block away. Her body hung limp as a wet rag. She barely looked conscious.

Pulling the door open, Bryce jumped from the van, sprinting toward her—but there was no way he could make it in time … not from this distance. A black Audi RS4 sat idling at the curb; Mason yanked the door open and shoved Zondra inside. He and the waiter climbed in after her, and the car peeled away from the curb.

Sarah had moved into the driver's seat, cranking the engine as soon as Bryce leapt from the van. She tore off after the Audi, slowing just enough to scoop Bryce up along the way. As she pulled up next to him, he yanked the front door open so hard, Chuck feared he'd rip it from its hinges. "Go, go, go," he yelled before his butt even made contact with the passenger seat.

Sarah made a hard right turn onto Union Street as Chuck started plotting their course. Up ahead he could see the Audi braking, preparing to take a right onto Columbus Avenue. Sarah gunned the van, its engines roaring under the strain.

"Hold on!" she said, taking the turn on two wheels. The van thudded back down onto all four tires and then screeched, eating asphalt as Sarah straightened from the turn and hit the gas again—hard. Chuck hung onto the built-in desk with one hand and steadied his monitor with the other. Of all the things he'd anticipated happening tonight, a high-speed car chase wasn't one of them.

The driver of the Audi must've spotted the tail—or maybe he'd just heard their squealing tires. He sped up, weaving in and out of traffic, sporadically changing lanes, cutting off other cars … driving like a maniac. That was okay, Chuck thought as panic rose in his throat—they had their own maniacal motorist behind the wheel.

For once, he was grateful for Sarah's insane driving habits—which, at the moment, could've qualified her for the Grand Prix. Chuck would've wrecked eight times over by now … but she was a freakin' vehicular ninja. Even with a lumbering, bulky van at her disposal, she'd managed not only to keep up with the more maneuverable sedan through heavy traffic, but significantly close the distance as she veered left onto Broadway. Both vehicles tore through the red light as horns blew and rubber cried out for mercy.

Checking his map, Chuck thought he saw a pattern … though it was hard to keep track, given all the dodging and weaving. He checked again, to be sure. Yep … there it was.

"Hey guys … I hate to bring this up right now, but it looks like they're heading for the Bay Bridge. If they get there first, there's no tolls on this side that would slow them down and we'll have a much harder time keeping up on a three-lane highway in this underpowered rickety tin can," he said as the van gave an alarming wail of discontent.

"Go faster, Sarah." Bryce's leg moved as if pressing an invisible gas pedal. "We need to catch up."

Sarah wrenched the wheel, careening into the left lane to pass a slow-moving Accord. "I'm going as fast as this piece of shit will go! You wanna drive?"

"Sorry," Bryce mumbled, his eyes fixed on the road as if he could will the van to speed up. Three cars ahead, the black sedan accelerated yet again, zipping into a tiny spot between a Mini and a Camry. Horns blared as Sarah tried to follow suit, cutting off a red Jeep with a very angry driver. The guy rolled his window down to give her the finger, but Sarah had already left him far behind.

"Don't sweat it, Bryce," she said, her voice grim. "I know what you're going through … but trust me—I'm not letting them get away."

Up ahead, Chuck saw the signs for Battery Street, their last hope to stop Mason from doing who-knew-what with Zondra. Once the sedan made that turn, they'd only have about ten city blocks before their chances of saving her plummeted.

As soon as it was obvious that that was the path Mason's car was taking, instead of slowing for the turn, Sarah accelerated as she whipped the wheel hard to the right, causing the top-heavy van to drift through a hairpin turn. Incredibly, she was now right on Mason's ass.

Chuck tightened his seat belt and waited for the inevitable metal-on-metal collision between the two vehicles. By contrast, Bryce unbuckled his belt, drawing his gun, preparing to strike.

In what Chuck could only assume was one of those textbook PIT maneuvers he'd seen police use on TV, Sarah accelerated until the van's front bumper was even with the back right quarter-panel of the car. She veered left, making contact, pushing the ass-end of the car into an uncontrollable skid. The Audi did a three-quarter spin before coming to rest as the van slid sideways, doing the same.

Bryce leapt from the van a split second before a horn blared, growing alarmingly louder and higher pitched as it approached. Chuck sucked in breath, preparing to yell a warning—and then a pickup truck careened into Sarah's door, flinging them forward. The van lurched, then teetered. Even though Chuck had been braced for it, the noise was horrible—howling, rending metal followed by a bone-jarring crunch—and the impact hurled him hard to the left, then to the right again. His seat belt caught him, snapping him back, rubber-band-style, into his seat—but his computer and monitors slid sideways, veering toward the ground and fetching up against the sliding door as the van collided with the asphalt and stayed there.

In the aftermath, there was a wrenching, awful silence. Chuck blinked, trying to get his bearings, and realized the van had landed on its side, driver's door pointing skyward and its nose facing Mason's car. From what he could see, Sarah's window was shattered. She was moving, that much he could tell … but how badly was she hurt?

His body went cold with fear. "Sarah?" He struggled to free himself, desperate to get to her. "Are you okay?"

She didn't answer for an eternal moment, but he could hear her groaning. "Yeah," she said after a second, sounding breathless. "Just covered in glass. My window's broken—by my head, if I had to guess. And my door's crushed in."

He got his seat belt undone and crawled up to the front, careful not to cut himself. There was a slice across Sarah's cheek, and her head had a lump on it that was starting to swell, doubtless from her collision with the window—but otherwise, miraculously, she seemed all right.

"Here," she said, wrapping her hand in her shirt and extracting pieces of glass that stuck, like jagged teeth, out of the window frame. "Help me so I can get to Bryce—and Zondra."

Through the windshield, Chuck could see Bryce approaching the sedan, his gun drawn. Somehow, despite the accident, the comm system was still active. As Chuck leaned forward to help Sarah free the remaining glass from the frame, he heard Bryce yell, "Hands where I can see them."

Chuck squinted. He could see Mason in the back seat, a gun pointed at Zondra's head. If she really couldn't move—God, she must be terrified … and furious.

The former waiter stepped out of the opposite side of the back seat, pointing his weapon across the top of the car at Bryce—who returned the favor.

"You must be her partner," the waiter said, unfazed. "We knew she wasn't working alone. Why don't you save us all some time and drop your gun before things get … messy."

"Let's all take a deep breath. We can work something out. Just don't hurt her," Bryce said, and Chuck wondered if anyone would've mistaken the emotion in his voice as simple concern for a partner. "I can give you something she never could, if you'll just let her go."

Mason spoke up from the back seat. "What's stopping us from taking you too? You're in no position to barter."

To Chuck's horror, Bryce shifted his feet, putting the barrel of his gun under his own chin. "I beg to differ. Maybe I should've introduced myself first. I'm Bryce Larkin, the only human Intersect in existence. I believe you've all been looking for me, but I swear … if you touch one hair on her head, I'll make sure your precious Intersect is lost forever." He stared them down, in a textbook example of his former arrogance. "If you contact your _girlfriend_, Agent Reeves, she'll confirm everything I'm telling you."

At that, glass or no, Sarah had had enough. She squeezed through the window, heedless of any shards that remained, admonishing Chuck to stay put. Dropping to the ground, she trained her gun on the waiter.

"What do you think you're doing, Bryce?"

"Whatever I have to, Sasha," he said, and Chuck took a moment to marvel at the fact that even now, in the midst of crisis, he had the ice-cold presence of mind to retain her former cover. "Just let _her_ know it was real. It was _always_ real … at least for me. I just wish I hadn't wasted so much time."

Could Zondra hear him? Chuck had no way of knowing. He felt a fissure crack its way through his heart.

What if he never saw Bryce again? What if this was goodbye?

"Okay," Mason said, skepticism clear in his voice, "let's assume I believe you. What now?"

"Simple. You let her go, I drop my gun and take her place. As you can see, my backup can no longer follow us once I'm in your car." Bryce pointed at the van, tipped over on its side. "Then you'll be home free."

"You can't do this, Bryce." Sarah sounded miserable, and Chuck wished he could do something—anything—to help.

"I don't have a choice," Bryce said, his eyes fixed on the waiter and the unwavering barrel of his gun.

Mason must have given some kind of signal, because the faux-waiter made his way around the car, gun still trained on Bryce. A moment later, the back door opened and Mason pushed Zondra out to flop on the pavement, his weapon still aimed at her head. As soon as she hit the ground, the waiter grabbed Bryce by the arm, pulling him to the opposite side of the car.

"Now that your partner's been released," Mason said, sounding cheerful, "drop your gun before I put a few rounds in her and we can all have some fun."

Bryce let his arm relax as his gun clattered to the pavement, his eyes fixed on Sarah's.

"Take care of her," he said.

Sarah opened her mouth, but no words escaped. His heart sinking, Chuck watched as the waiter pushed Bryce into the car and jumped in behind him. The driver revved the engine, then sped away, disappearing into the night.

OoOoOoOoO

It was a bittersweet pill to swallow. Sarah was torn between the exhilaration of knowing they'd managed to rescue Zondra from Mason's maleficent clutches and the foreboding sense of loss that accompanied surrendering Bryce over to Fulcrum … yet again … maybe forever this time.

She was seething—absolutely furious with her long-time partner. What the hell was he thinking?

Bryce had, in essence, pulled a Chuck, sacrificing himself in order to save Zondra's life—his very own Cadmean victory—and now that rat bastard Mason and his deviant, waiter-impersonating crony had taken him to God-only-knew-where. The van was totaled—lying on its fucking side, for Christ's sake—and there was no way for Sarah to go after him. All she could do was stand there, frozen in place, watching the Audi's taillights recede into the distance as she committed its license plate to memory.

She felt completely helpless. Inept. Impotent.

If only she'd had the foresight to place a tracker on Bryce before he'd leapt from the van. Better yet, if only she hadn't let them take him in the first place—or if she could've avoided being t-boned by that pickup truck … if … if … if. In the end, with the van wrecked, Bryce taken, and Zondra crumpled on the pavement, Sarah had somehow managed to fail them all.

Unbelievable.

Now, not only did she need to find out where they'd taken Bryce, but she'd also have to formulate some kind of plan to get him back. She had no idea how, but with Chuck still by her side, she believed anything was possible.

Nevertheless, the clock was ticking; they'd surely torture Bryce when they questioned him. And no matter how those James Bond and Jason Bourne movies Chuck liked to watch portrayed spies' resilience, everyone eventually talked. Once Fulcrum found out Bryce didn't have the Intersect, they'd hurt him … badly—maybe even kill him just to prove a point. She was sure they had only a brief period of time to retrieve him whole and intact. But first, they needed to get the hell off of this very public stage where both Chuck and Zondra were exposed. They were supposed to be dead, not players with starring roles in domestic espionage. Graham could find out the truth if they didn't act fast, and then everything was sure to crumble.

Behind her, she could hear rattling and swearing as Chuck forced his way through the frame of the broken window. At least he wasn't hurt—that was something. If he'd been injured again in the accident, Sarah would've never forgiven herself.

Her head throbbed with a dull ache. Absently, she put a hand up to her face; it came away sticky with dried blood. Wincing, she wiped her fingers on her jeans and went to check on Zondra.

Z lay motionless on the pavement, tilted halfway on her side. The little black dress she'd worn was ripped, one strap pushed all the way off her shoulder. Gently, Sarah rolled her friend over, cradling Zondra's head so it didn't fall to the ground, doing even further damage. She kept her expression steady, but it was all she could do not to recoil at the insensate way Zondra's limp body reacted—like a fresh corpse. Her knees were bloodied from their collision with the pavement, there was an abrasion on her forehead, and her cheeks were streaked with mascara she hadn't had the ability to wipe away … but her eyes were the worst. They darted from side to side frantically, and in them Sarah saw everything Zondra couldn't voice: Fear, sadness, despair, longing, regret.

"Everything's gonna be okay," Sarah said, trying to sound as reassuring as possible. "Don't worry—I know what drug they gave you. It'll wear off soon enough. You must be terrified, but I promise, it's just temporary. In the meantime, I'll get you someplace safe. Just hang in there."

Tears slipped down Zondra's cheeks, and Sarah wiped them away with the hem of her shirt. "We'll get him back, Z," she said, answering the question she was sure she saw reflected in her friend's eyes. "I swear we will. But first, I need to clean up the mess we've made."

She felt a hand on her shoulder, squeezing tight, offering support. "What can I do?" Chuck asked.

So many people would've fallen apart in this kind of scenario, become a gibbering mess—but not Chuck. He was always right by her side—her polished rock—his voice filled with concern, trying to help any way he could. Despite the grimness of the situation, Sarah couldn't help but feel grateful that she'd found him—that no matter how ugly things got, somehow, he'd never let her down.

Turning to take him in, she gave him a wan smile. "Could you please go check on the driver of that pickup truck? Remember, Chuck—he's a civilian."

He nodded and strode away. Propping Zondra's head on her lap, Sarah watched him go.

The truck was large, green, and old—and aside from the color, these descriptors also applied to its owner. A large, white-bearded man in faded jeans and a dingy Carhartt t-shirt who looked as if he could double as a mall Santa stood next to the crumpled hood, assessing the damage. As Chuck approached, he straightened, running his hands down the legs of his jeans.

Chuck stopped in front of him, a couple of feet away. "I'm so sorry about the accident, sir," Sarah heard him say. "Are you all right?"

Sarah braced herself for the guy to start swinging or swearing. In situations like these, it could go either way—the accident had been her fault, after all; the truck just hadn't been able to stop in time. But to her relief, the guy just looked bemused.

"I'm okay, I reckon," he said, with a heavy Southern drawl. "Just a bit shaken up, s'all. This old girl … she's built like a tank. But how about you, pardner? That was a one hell of a wreck. No offense, but the young lady was driving like a bat out of hell—and once I saw them guns come a-flyin' out, I figured I knew why. Y'all's undercover police or something, ain'tcha?"

"Something like that." Chuck's back was to Sarah, but she knew that tone, and was sure it came right along with a strained smile.

"You sure you're farin' all right, son? Got glass all over your britches, there." The guy gestured toward Chuck's pants.

"Oh … yeah. I had to climb through the broken window. Not a scratch on me, though—I got lucky."

"You don't say. Musta been kinda like riding the gravy train with biscuit wheels." The guy offered Chuck his hand. "I'm Earl, by the way—Earl Dixon. Not gonna ask any questions 'bout what went down here, if'n its police business and all … but maybe we should go ahead and swap insurance info. Faster we do that, the quicker we can get out of the middle of the damn road."

What they really needed to do was call a containment team, and fast. They'd remove all traces they'd been there—fingerprints, the van itself—deal with the truck driver, and cordon off the area. They'd also get in touch with local law enforcement and claim jurisdiction over the scene. Then she, Chuck, and Zondra could get back to doing what really mattered—finding Bryce before it was too late.

She tuned back in to the conversation with Earl in time to hear Chuck respond, "Insurance—yes, excellent idea," in his best customer-service voice. "Don't worry about calling the police—we'll take care of everything. Just hang tight … I'll be back in a minute."

He shook Earl's hand again and headed over to Sarah, shaking his pant legs to shed some more of the glass. When he reached her, he crouched down on the pavement. "Well, that went better than I expected. How's Zondra doing? Any change?"

Reaching down, Sarah stroked Z's hair back from her forehead. Zondra blinked at her slowly, giving thanks. "You did great, Chuck. And no … no change yet—but it shouldn't be long before the effects start wearing off."

"Good … good," Chuck said, looking like there were a thousand other things he'd like to say instead. Sarah appreciated his restraint. "So … what next? You need to call this in?"

Sarah had to raise her voice over the sound of a blaring horn as an approaching car swerved to avoid the wreck. "Yeah … right away. Do you mind staying with her while I do that? I don't want to leave her alone."

"Of course." He sat down next to Sarah and, gingerly, they managed the process of transferring Zondra's head into his lap. Sarah could see him talking quietly to her, running his hand through her hair, as she walked away to make her call. For once, she felt no jealousy whatsoever, just a deep, abiding sympathy.

Pulling out her cell, she got the ball rolling. "Yes," she said into the phone as soon as the field office answered. "This is Agent Walker. I need a containment team sent to my location. Make sure they have a wrecker with a flatbed."

Speaking as succinctly as possible, she explained the situation. The agent assured her that they'd have someone at the scene within ten minutes; she would have preferred five, but ten would have to do.

Disconnecting, she called Jackson next. He answered on the second ring, and she breathed a sigh of relief.

"Jackson, it's Williams. Listen up … Anderson's just been taken by someone working with Fulcrum and the van's totaled. Can you come get us? I'll explain everything when you get here. We're stranded with no way to try to pick up his trail."

She was sure Jackson had a thousand questions, but to his credit, he didn't ask any of them. "Absolutely. Where are you?"

"On the corner of Battery and Merchant Street."

"I'm not too far from there. I'm on my way." He hung up.

Hoping that Z had regained at least some control over her muscles in the intervening minutes, she went back to check on Zondra and Chuck. God, it must be like being entombed; Sarah could feel the claustrophobic echo within her own body.

Sarah knelt down and squeezed Zondra's hand. "It'll be over soon, Z. The containment team's coming, and Jackson's gonna get us out of here."

They huddled together on the ground until the team pulled up, with Jackson right behind them. Sarah got to her feet, ignoring the lingering soreness from the accident, and went to give the team their orders while Jackson helped Chuck with Zondra. As she walked away, she could hear Jackson introducing himself—and Chuck's response, which made her grin despite the circumstances: "Hey, I'm Charles Carmichael. You might know me better as Red Two. But please, call me Chuck. It's great to finally meet you."

By the time she'd finished with the containment team, Jackson and Chuck had Zondra settled in the van. "Do you mind driving, Sasha?" Jackson said from the back. "Chuck and I can put our heads together and see if we can come up with a way to locate Bruce."

A lump rose in Sarah's throat. "Thanks, Jackson. And no, I don't mind driving. I memorized the plate of Mason's car—at least it's a place to start."

She was about to rattle off the license plate number when Chuck's cell phone chirped. He looked down at the screen—and then his eyes widened in shock as he slid into the front passenger seat.

"Holy shit," he said. "Look."

Written in the same capital, neon-green letters was a new message from their mysterious marauder.

REMEMBER CHARLES, THERE ARE EYES EVERYWHERE ... EVEN IN THE SKIES.

The text disappeared, replaced with a picture of their van tipped on its side as the black Audi left the scene. Then, like some kind of voyeuristic carousel, still images of the Audi from different angles and locations started flipping across the screen. If Sarah had to guess, most were from traffic cams throughout city and surrounding areas. Some might've even been from private places of business, as they were lower and actually showed the occupants' faces, Bryce's included.

Chuck's phone blanked again; then a video played. The vantage point was obviously from space. It showed the entirety of the West Coast. Satellite footage? As the video progressed, it zoomed in until they were looking down at themselves in the standoff with Mason. Sarah gesticulated; Bryce shook his head; Zondra's body spilled, boneless, onto the pavement. It froze on an image of Z's face, then fast-forwarded, following the Audi as it sped away. The camera zoomed out, overlaying a street grid as the black car took the Bay Bridge toward Oakland, turning left and right until it reached its final destination—some kind of …

"Where the hell is that?" Sarah said, peering closer. The tan building that the Audi had pulled up in front of was massive, with three recessed arches framing huge windows, what looked like hand-crafted masonry, and a green awning with intricate scrollwork sheltering a wide doorway. It had what her father would have called 'good bones'—as if it had once been dignified, even sophisticated—but now it projected an air of unmistakable neglect. The bottoms of the old-fashioned windows were boarded up, and weeds sprouted all along the base of its exterior. When Mason and the waiter yanked Bryce out of the car and into the building, the front door yawned open on an expanse of darkness … as if he'd been swallowed up by an abyss. Sarah couldn't help but repress a shiver as the door slammed shut behind them and the screen went black.

Jackson leaned forward, excitement clear in his voice. "I know that building. It's Oakland's 16th Street Station. There was an earthquake back in the '90s that shut it down. It's abandoned—hasn't been used in years. No wonder they took Bruce there—no way someone's gonna stumble across them by accident."

"Jesus." Sarah's heart started to pound. It was more than she could have hoped for—their anonymous friend had drawn a giant green arrow straight to where Bryce was being held. Whoever it was had given them a fighting chance at saving Bryce's life. But who was helping them—and why?

Next to her, Chuck cleared his throat. When she glanced over at him, he was staring down at the screen, a determined look on his face. "I assume you can hear me," he said, and it took Sarah a second to realize that he was talking to the phone.

It took a second; then a single word popped up on the screen.

YES.

"Is this Orion?" Chuck said, and Sarah saw his left hand clench into a fist around the phone as he waited for the answer.

YES.

"But how—"

The typewritten words came in a flurry. Sarah leaned over so she could see.

I KNOW YOU'VE BEEN LOOKING FOR ME, CHARLES. YOU NEED TO STOP. IT'S TOO DANGEROUS FOR US TO BE IN CONTACT RIGHT NOW—THE GOVERNMENT IS HUNTING BOTH OF US. I PROMISE TO KEEP WATCHING OUT FOR YOU. I'LL BE IN TOUCH ONCE IT'S SAFE. AND I'M SENDING SOMETHING THAT WILL HELP YOU. I WISH I COULD DO MORE.

"Who are you?" Chuck asked, but there was no answer. The screen went blank again. Orion was gone.

Chuck let out a long, resigned breath. "I don't even know what to say. That was incredibly helpful—and yet, incredibly frustrating. Right now, I'd say let's just focus on the helpful part. Now we know where Bryce is being held. Let's go get him back."

"Already on it," Jackson said as Sarah pulled out of the parking spot and headed toward the entrance to the Bay Bridge, the GPS reciting instructions as she drove. "Sasha, what did you say those bastards gave your friend?"

"A derivative of pancuronium bromide," Sarah said as the van merged onto the bridge and the dark waters of the bay appeared beneath them, jostled into whitecaps by the evening's breeze.

"That's what I thought it looked like. The good news is I've got Neostigmine in a kit back here somewhere." She heard him rummaging around. "It'll counteract the effects of what they dosed her with. Just a second—ah, here we go. Sorry about this, ma'am. I'll be as gentle as I can."

She glanced in the rearview mirror in time to see him steady Zondra with one hand and plunge a needle into her upper arm with the other. "Just a few more minutes and you'll be okay," he told her, his voice soothing.

"Thank you," Sarah said with heartfelt appreciation. Having to leave Zondra in the van while she went in after Bryce would have been a waste of precious talent. Even if she was far from her best by the time they got to the abandoned railway station, Zondra would be a force to be reckoned with—especially against someone who'd just drugged her and stolen her possible future.

The night wasn't over yet, and the outcome was far from certain. But for the first time since Mason and his co-conspirator had shoved an unresisting Zondra into the Audi, Sarah began to feel a most welcome emotion.

Hope.

OoOoOoOoO

"Just let _her_ know it was real. It was _always_ real … at least for me. I just wish I hadn't wasted so much time." _Oh, God. What had she done? _

Bryce's words were tormenting her, clawing their way through Zondra's heart. Immobilized and miserable, she was in both physical and psychological agony. One, she had plenty of experience with. Her body would rebound as it always had. The other, she was but a babe in the woods.

Emotional pain had a biological purpose, she'd always believed; to steer her clear of unhealthy patterns and relationships. Zondra'd been pushing back against that pain for so long, medicating it with close friendships and romantic dalliances. But tonight seemed different, somehow. She welcomed the pain she felt at losing Bryce, invited it in as a teacher and a goad. She'd never hurt this much in her life—and it was true what they said: Pain could be a powerful motivator. Never again would she be so foolish and shortsighted. Never again would she try to suppress what Bryce truly meant to her.

She would do whatever it took to get him back. Make any sacrifice, step over any line. She'd always heard that only the strongest of warriors chose their battles. This would be hers. She'd earn her name.

But first, she needed to stop feeling like a freakin' Raggedy Ann doll … trapped and alone without her Andy.

Her body slumped against the seat belt as Sarah hung a left, leaving the bridge far behind—then jolted back again, her skull bumping against the headrest. The impact made her teeth rattle. They closed on the tip of her tongue, and the coppery taste of blood filled her mouth, trickling down her throat in a slow, steady stream.

Great. She could add her tongue to the growing list of things that she'd hurt tonight: Her skinned knees. Her forehead, which was somewhat the worse for wear after colliding with the pavement. And her pride.

All of this was her fault. If she hadn't been so stubborn, so fixated on the past—if she'd just listened to Bryce—she wouldn't be paralyzed and helpless in the back of Jackson's surveillance van, and Bryce wouldn't have been taken.

She'd told Sarah that she wanted the kind of love where someone would be willing to throw themselves in front of a speeding bullet to save her life. But where it'd been in Chuck's _nature_ to make that kind of sacrifice for her, it had been in Bryce's _heart _to do the same. It wasn't some gut reaction to a precarious situation. It was a conscious decision where he'd had plenty of time to weigh all the repercussions and fully understood his actions … and she felt only the deepest, darkest regret for putting him in a situation where such a choice had been necessary. Mason was right … all of her training had flown out the window. She'd been arrogant and over-confident, and now they were all paying the price.

Her body sagged to the right as Sarah took another turn, and she felt Jackson's steady hands on her arm, pulling her upright again. He'd said it would just be a few minutes until she felt better … and was it her imagination, or had the tips of her fingers begun to tingle? For the thousandth time, she tried to wiggle them, but nothing happened. She felt marooned in her own flesh, like a shipwrecked survivor who stood on a desolate shore, seeing vessel after vessel pass her by with no way to hail them.

Frustrated, her mind wandered back to the endless loop of her own thoughts. All those years spent without a word, when she assumed he'd forgotten she so much as existed—and all that time Bryce had really loved her, longed for her in wistful silence. God, the man was so infuriating. She wanted to kill him … right after she kissed him senseless. But most of all, she wanted to apologize to him for being so hard-headed when she'd refused to listen. She wanted to get him back, and she would do whatever it took to make that happen. If only that damn shot would go ahead and work its magic.

She wasn't imagining it now—her fingertips were definitely tingling. So were her toes. Once again, she tried to move them—and this time, although she felt as if she was pushing through a thick, viscous liquid, her fingers obeyed, flexing ever so slightly. Encouraged, she did it again.

"That's it," Jackson said, his voice edged with excitement. "Try it again."

Chuck twisted around in his seat to look at her. "She moved?" he asked Jackson, his eyes flicking over Zondra's face.

"Just her fingers, but it's a start. Here, look." He gestured at Zondra's hand where it rested on the seat's armrest.

Summoning all of her concentration, Zondra focused on moving her fingers again. They twitched, and Chuck smiled. "She's coming out of it," he said, twisting back around to talk to Sarah. "I think she's gonna be okay."

The tingling had intensified into a pins-and-needles sensation which was spreading throughout her limbs—as if her entire body had fallen asleep and was waking up all at once. It was painful, but she welcomed the change. She'd once read about a medical condition like this—locked-in syndrome, in which patients were alert and aware but could only move their eyes—and had thought that it sounded like an exquisite form of torture. How right she'd been. When she got ahold of Troy Mason, he was going to pay for doing this to her.

Sarah changed lanes and the car shifted again—but this time, Zondra was able to hold herself upright. She worked her jaw, and was able to open her mouth, then shut it again. With effort, she sucked in a harsh breath, then spoke. Her voice was creaky, with gaps between each word, but it was recognizably her voice, which was far more than she'd been capable of before.

"I'm … so … sorry," she said to everyone in the van. "Thank you … for coming … after me."

Sarah and Chuck had been engaged in a tense conversation about what their plan would be when they got to the station. At Zondra's words, though, they fell silent, and Sarah caught her gaze in the rearview mirror.

"No need to apologize," she told Zondra. "I'm just glad you're all right. How much mobility do you have?"

Gingerly, Zondra tried to lift her legs. They alternated between numbness and a pervasive prickling sensation—but they obeyed, albeit clumsily. "It's not … great. But it's getting … better … all the time. A few more minutes … and I think I'll be … all right."

"Don't push yourself," Jackson cautioned her, but she ignored him. Pushing herself was exactly what she intended to do. There was no way she was going to let her team go in after Bryce without her help. He'd put his life on the line for her; she was going to return the favor, paralysis be damned.

She slowly extended her arms above her head, stretching, then reached left and right. Her limbs trembled, but did as they were told. "I'll be fine. I just need to change—and I need a weapon."

"Change?" Jackson said, looking confused.

"Into some BDUs. Whatever we have. If she's going in there, then so am I." She pitched her voice loudly enough for everyone to hear. "Sasha, don't you even think of leaving me behind."

Sarah's eyes met hers in the rearview mirror, full of a rueful amusement. "I wouldn't dream of it."

"But—" Jackson protested.

"I just need five more minutes and I'll be in fighting shape." She folded her arms across her chest and stared him down. "Clothes?"

Mumbling to himself, Jackson unhooked his seat belt and went to poke around in the back of the van. He came back with an armful of black gear, which he presented to her with a distinctly dubious air. "Here … these fit Agent Williams. They should do."

"Thanks." She accepted the clothes, trying to disguise the fact that their weight had nearly caused them to tumble straight through her hands onto the floorboards. "Um—could you please turn around?"

In the dim light of the van, she could see Jackson's face blush bright red. "Of course," he said, and spun in his seat without another word.

Slowly, so as not to betray the fact that her fingers were still less than reliable, Zondra pulled her tattered black dress over her head and dropped it onto the seat. She took hold of the pants Jackson had given her, gripping the waistband for all she was worth, and, inch by awkward inch, managed to slide them on. Putting on the rest of her gear was an equally slow and painful process, but she managed—though by the end of it, her limbs felt as drained and shaky as if she'd just completed a Spartan race.

Sarah parked the van a few blocks away from the station and killed the lights. After taking a few minutes to review the blueprints of the train station Jackson had called up on his computer, she and Sarah formulated a plan to infiltrate the building, keeping in mind all of the points of entry and the exits, should they need to make a hasty retreat. They also conferred with each other on the most probable places within the building Bryce might be held as Chuck and Jackson listened in.

Finding Bryce would be complicated. The space was freaking huge, with the tracks and platforms, a baggage wing, a massive entrance hall, and a series of small rooms laced throughout the building. He was most likely in one of those. She just hoped they could get to him in time.

"All right," she said at last. "We're as ready as we're going to be. Let's get moving."

As she and Sarah stepped out of the van to make their way towards the station, Chuck spoke up, anxiety coloring his tone. "Hold on," he said, undoing his seatbelt. "Wait for me. I just need a second to gear up. I'm coming with you."

Sarah froze, looking horrified. "No, Chuck. Absolutely not. It's too dangerous. I need you to stay here, in the van, where it's safe."

He shook his head, a determined expression marking his features. "Look, I know how you feel about this kind of thing, but Bryce is my friend too and I want to help. Who knows what you're gonna run into? There might be something technical I can do that could make the difference in getting him back." He edged toward the back of the van and started sorting through the pile of gear. "Plus … haven't I been training for just this type of scenario?"

"I'm sorry, but the answer's still no," Sarah said, looking every bit as determined. "You're not ready for something like this and I need to know you'll be safe if I'm going to stay focused and keep my head in the game."

"Oh, come on, Sasha." Chuck rolled his eyes. "Since when has me staying in the van ever been the safe play? That's usually when I get into the most trouble."

Putting her hands on her hips, Sarah glared at him. "Only because you've always refused to _stay_ in the van, Chuck."

"Because I've always felt safest when I was by your side … you know … us? … together? Don't you see? That's when we've always made the biggest difference—when we work as a team."

Zondra watched in amazement as Sarah's resolve shattered in the face of Chuck's plea. Even a blind man could see the love in her eyes as she placed her hand on his cheek. For once, Zondra didn't feel envy at witnessing their affection for each other. Something had shifted within her, making it all the more important she follow her heart and let go of the past.

"Okay, Chuck," Sarah said, sounding resigned. "You win. Grab your gear. And Jackson…"

"Yes?" The guy looked nonplussed at the realization that Red Two and Agent Williams were obviously an item—but it was too late to take that back now. At least Chuck had managed to call Sarah by her cover name.

"Give him a tranq gun," Sarah said, to Zondra's surprise.

"You got it." Standing, Jackson made his hunched-over way to the weapons locker and searched until he'd found what Sarah'd asked for.

Chuck cradled the weapon in his hand, looking as surprised as Zondra felt. "A tranq gun? Are you sure?"

She gave him a nod and a rueful smile. "Just try not to shoot me or Zondra … or yourself, for that matter. And stay right beside me. Above all else, we'll need to move as silently as possible. Stealth will be a huge factor. The longer whoever's in that station is unaware of our presence, the better."

After one final check of their comms, they were off. With Sarah in the lead, they hopped the perimeter fence that surrounded the complex and made their way along the abandoned railroad tracks. Passing the lookout tower, they reached the bottom of the stairs that allowed them access to the upper platform at the back of the building. Zondra fought the urge to race up the steps. Instead, she paused to catch her breath and listen for movement. Next to her, Sarah and Chuck were doing the same.

No one was there. They were still alone.

Guns drawn, Sarah motioned for Zondra to take point, keeping Chuck in the wings as they made their way up the stairs, careful to stay as low as possible. Once they made it to the upper platform, they were able to find exactly what they'd hoped for—a way in through an open window over the baggage wing. This would give them a vantage point from which they could assess the situation inside before committing themselves to a course of action. Slipping on night-vision goggles, they climbed through the window.

As soon as Zondra's feet hit the floor, she could hear wailing cries echoing from below. The sounds weren't immediately recognizable as Bryce's voice—but then again, she'd never heard him scream like that before. She froze, crippled with guilt and fear. Somewhere in the recesses of the station's basement, if she had to guess, Bryce was most likely being tortured.

Her gaze met Sarah's, and found horror stamped all over her friend's face. Grimly, Sarah gestured toward a narrow walkway that connected the baggage wing to the top of the main hall's grand staircase, which would take them down into the belly of the beast. One by one, she, Sarah, and Chuck made their way across the walkway to the stairs.

Sarah came even with her at the top of the staircase. They were about to take the first step down—and then Chuck grabbed them both by the backs of their vests. Before Zondra could ask, he silently pointed to the edge of the first step. Squinting, she made out a faint red laser beam that stretched all the way across, hitting a reflective receiver on the other side.

"Tripwire alarm," Chuck whispered, letting them go. "Just step over it … but we might want to keep a sharp eye out for more."

Damn. Two minutes in, and he'd already managed to save their collective asses. Sarah leaned over and gave him a quick kiss, thanking him, before they resumed the trek downwards.

The main hall turned out to be empty, but now Zondra could hear voices coming from the direction of the basement—the entrance to which was at the far end of the wide, expansive granite floor. At another time, she would have stopped to marvel at the crumbling grandeur of this forgotten place, with its monumental arches, impossibly high ceilings, and impressive period details … but now, all she could think about was how huge the entryway was and how every foot separated her from rescuing the man who'd been willing to sacrifice himself to save her.

As she edged around the corner that would lead them further down, she spotted two men with rifles slung across their shoulder at the base of the stairs. It looked—and smelled—like they were sharing a joint.

Seriously? A man was being tortured within earshot and they were … what? Listening to his screams as the soundtrack to their high? Fury coursed through her. She lifted her silenced pistol, preparing to fire, only to be stopped by Chuck once again. He shook his head, raised his tranq gun, and fired twice in quick succession. Fulcrum's excuse for Jay and Silent Bob both crumpled to the ground in a heaping pile of limbs.

Chuck turned back to her, grinning from ear to ear … and like the lovable goofball he was, blew the nonexistent smoke from the top of his tranq gun. For just a moment, she smiled back at him … and then the grins faded from their faces as they stepped over the unconscious bodies on the landing at the bottom of the stairs and headed toward the distant sound of muffled voices.

They were in a long, graffiti-covered corridor. The walls seemed to lean toward each other, pointing their way toward a room at the end of the hall from which light spilled. The door stood open, and all three of them removed their night-vision goggles, blinking as their eyes adjusted. Zondra took a lightning-quick peek around the doorframe and saw Mason, his arms folded across his chest; the waiter, a controller in his hand; two other men she didn't recognize who both had rifles; and Bryce, cuffed to a chair, electrodes attached to all of his extremities. Anguish coursed through her at the sight of the generator she could hear humming away in the corner of the tiny room, lending the electrodes the power they needed to loosen his tongue.

When Mason spoke, his voice was a snarl. "Rest assured, Larkin … you will tell us who the _real_ Intersect is. You're only prolonging the pain. There's no reason to stay loyal to them. The CIA doesn't care what happens to you. Never has. You've always been expendable in their eyes."

There was a pause, and then Bryce spoke, sounding weak and out of breath. "Please," he begged. "Just … kill me."

Mason gave a mirthless laugh. "Crank it up—all the way, this time. We'll _scorch_ the answers out of him … or leave him a stuttering, drooling invalid."

A voice that Zondra recognized as belonging to the waiter at Refinery77 said, "Okay. Whatever you say, Troy. But if he shits his pants … you're cleaning it up."

The beginning of a scream reverberated through her bones as the lights flickered … then faded into silence when the electricity coursing through Bryce's body must've locked up all of his muscles. Rage tore through her heart. She couldn't listen to this for another second. Showing Sarah and Chuck the flashbang she was about to throw into the tiny room so they all had time to cover their ears, she pulled the pin, tossing it, counting as she waited.

The resulting explosion shook the hallway as Zondra rushed into the room, Sarah close on her heels. Still in a haze from the close-quartered blast, Zondra took out the guy closest to the door with a shot to the head—then shifted her aim, putting two into the chest of his counterpart. Mason and his goatee-wearing lackey lunged at both women, completely caught off guard.

Much to Zondra's chagrin, instead of shooting him as she'd expected, Sarah used a roundhouse kick to the side of Mason's head to put him down for the count. It wasn't the permanent solution that Zondra had hoped for—but at least Mason was down. Van-the-Man-With-a-Man-Bun collapsed to the ground with a dart sticking out of his neck, and Zondra spun to see Chuck leaning against the door frame to steady his aim.

With Mason and his men neutralized, Zondra raced to Bryce's side. His head was wrenched backward, his mouth wide open in a silent scream as electricity continued to snake its way through his body. Frantically, she yanked on each electrode wire until the final one came free and Bryce's head fell forward once again, blood and drool dripping from his busted lip. She allowed herself a moment of relief as she watched his chest expand and contract with deep breaths.

She had two priorities now—making sure Bryce would be okay and snuffing out Mason's miserable life like a candle, in that order. Once she'd rechecked Bryce's pulse and breathing to assure herself the bastards hadn't done him any permanent harm, she stalked over to Mason and stood over him, gun drawn. She'd prefer to look the asshole in the eye when she executed him, but dead was dead, and this would have to do. She drew a deep breath, her finger whitening on the trigger.

"No!" Chuck's voice came from beside her, so close it startled her. "You can't kill him—not like this."

"Why not?" Her voice was so filled with venom, she barely recognized it as her own.

"Because," Chuck said, as cautiously as if he were addressing a wild animal, "we still need answers. Like, who's he working with? How did they know who you were at the restaurant? And who's their contact in L.A. … this enigmatic guy or gal only known to us as V.H. who will now, most likely, take Mason's place? But most of all … Bryce wouldn't want you to do this. Killing in the name of self-defense is one thing, but this would just be murder, Z."

Zondra gave a long, frustrated sigh. Much as she hated to admit it, he was right. "Fine," she said, backing off. "But I get to question him. And whatever he did to Bryce, I'll take great pleasure in returning the favor tenfold."

"Fair enough," Chuck said, stepping aside so that Sarah could zip-tie Mason's hands behind his back. She tossed a couple of zip-ties to Zondra, who took care of Van while Chuck secured the stoner twins down the hallway.

"All right," Sarah said at last, surveying their handiwork. "Let me call in the cleaners to bring everyone in for questioning, and we'll get the hell out of here. Jackson, go ahead and bring the van around."

"10-4," the analyst said through their comms. "I'll give you a heads-up when the cleaners are here."

Zondra waited for the cleaning crew next to Bryce, holding his hand, talking to him soothingly. There was no indication he could hear her, but she didn't care. If in some recess of his brain he could process his surroundings, she wanted him to know that he wasn't alone.

After the crew had arrived and begun processing the scene, one of them helped Chuck carry Bryce to the van. They put him down on the floor behind the seats, and Zondra sat with him, his head in her lap, stroking his hair. She sat like that all the way through Oakland and over the Bay Bridge, through the streets of San Francisco, until they pulled up in front of the safe house and Chuck and Jackson carried Bryce inside. And when they placed him carefully on the bed, in the room he'd relinquished for Zondra, she sat down next to him, his hand in hers, holding vigil long into the night.

There would be time enough later to thank him. Time to say what was in her heart. But for now, she was content just to sit on the edge of the mattress, his hand in hers, watching him sleep, and know that he was safe …

… And loved.

* * *

A/N: We sincerely apologize for the delay in sending out our latest installment. Our generous son decided it would be in everyone's best interest to share his nasty cold. It swept through our household and took us with it, slowing our writing process to a crawl. Just as we surfaced from the nose-blowing extravaganza, the page proofs for Emily's YA novel arrived in her inbox, requiring her attention … a welcome distraction, but a distraction nonetheless. All of which is to say—we're sorry, and we hope you found our latest chapter worth the wait.

A/N #2: This chapter required a fair amount of research. The car chase and the final scene at 16th Street Station took place in true-to-life locations. We found the history behind the Station to be fascinating and wanted to portray its setting as accurately as possible. For those of you who are into that kind of thing, feel free to look it up and see how our story aligned with reality.

A/N #3: Finally, special thanks go out to michaelfmx, DannyBoy, and Mike B for taking the time to read and review so many chapters of our story. Neither Mike nor DannyBoy are currently registered on the site, so we wanted to use this forum to express our gratitude for their thoughtful feedback, as we do with all the members who can be contacted through regular means.

As always, thanks for reading—and please keep your reviews, follows, and favorites coming our way! They really do make this all worthwhile.


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